Chapter seventeen
‘You seem very upbeat this morning!’ Martine observed, as I hummed along to The Monkees on the radio, now permanently set to the golden oldies stations. ‘Any particular reason?’
I was dropping her off in town on my way up to Rosemount for a story session with Dodie Lochmead, who was halfway through her thrilling saga of four husbands and seven race cars, in which she had won several club championships and over a hundred trophies.
She was going into a lot more detail about the cars than the husbands, two of whom (maybe three) were called Tim.
‘Because it’s spring!’ I said, which was true. But only partly.
I’d expected to be wiped out after the emotional and mental assault course of that meeting at Jacobs’.
But even though my entire body still clenched just thinking about that mortifying photo in the kitchen, it was done.
I was in no great rush to see Natasha again, and I wasn’t sure how I’d feel once the reality of Christian’s new regime became clearer, but, for now, I didn’t have to think about it for a while.
And of course, with the office hurdle cleared, it was a straight run to the weekend, and the Henderson family party – and Fraser.
I beamed vacantly at the cars ahead. I’d trialled various imaginary versions of our first meeting in five years, the same way I’d brainstormed different permutations of Arthur and Seraphina’s goodbyes until one felt ‘right’.
All my versions ended with Fraser apologising for being such an idiot, me graciously demurring, and us agreeing that it was good to see one another again.
And then . . .
I made myself stop there. I didn’t want to tempt Fate. The main thing was, we’d get over that initial awkwardness, and find our old connection was still there underneath. That much was reasonable, surely? Who knew what might happen after that?
‘You mentioned that you were going back in to your office for a meeting this week,’ Martine went on. ‘How did it go?’
Blimey. Martine remembered everything. ‘It wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be.’
I realised that was true. I hadn’t had a panic attack; I hadn’t been sacked.
‘It rarely is, Beth,’ she said, serenely. ‘What did you think would happen?’
I shot her a side-glance. For someone who had, in her own son’s words, ‘Never set foot in a place of regular employment’, Martine was very confident about my indispensability. ‘Still time to find out,’ I said, darkly, then changed the subject. ‘Where would you like me to drop you off?’
‘At the hairdresser’s, I’ll give you directions.’ Martine touched her hair, which was swept into its usual French pleat. ‘Heather made the appointment – said she’s booked me in for what she called a “glow-up”. Is a “glow-up” what I think it is?’
I assured her that it was.
‘It’s for this do at the weekend.’ She sighed.
‘Are you looking forward to it?’ I asked. ‘Seeing everyone?’
‘Well, I’m looking forward to seeing everyone.’ Martine paused. ‘I wouldn’t say I was looking forward to the party, as such.’
Bad choice of words, Beth. How could she enjoy a party that was all about the love she’d lost? ‘I’m so sorry, that was insensitive. I didn’t mean . . .’
‘Goodness, don’t apologise! You’re not the one who insisted on throwing a party!
Between us, while I’m always happy to see the children, I’d really rather the whole thing wasn’t about me and Ray.
I don’t want us to be sad. Or even worse, to feel we ought to feel sad.
’ She gazed out of the window. ‘Jacqueline has rather fixed ideas about grief. She keeps talking about a process, but the human heart doesn’t cleave to the schedules of self-help guides. ’
I nodded. For a while I’d felt nothing after my mother died.
Just guilt, and relief. Relief that the worst had now happened, that I didn’t need to fear the phone in the middle of the night.
And then, one month after the funeral, the tidal wave crashed over me – in Greggs, of all places.
Pure sorrow, that I’d never see Mum laugh, or smell her skin, or be able to tell her anything, or ask her anything, ever again.
I sensed Martine was looking at me. ‘I’m sure you know that all too well, Beth.’
Haltingly, I told her things I’d never told anyone else. Not even Fraser. She listened, then patted my knee again, more gently, and we didn’t say anything else until I pulled up outside her salon.
Martine’s regular hair salon was a discreet establishment called Berenice’s (est. 1956).
It was down a side street in the nice old Georgian area of Longhampton, next to an antiques dealer and a gun shop.
I told her I should be finished by four, and could pick her up from the Wild Dog Café, but she insisted that she’d make her own way home.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said, leaning into the car. ‘I’ll get a taxi back.’
‘Are you sure?’ I frowned. ‘Jackie would never forgive me if anything happened to you.’
‘You’re my lodger,’ said Martine, ‘not Jacqueline’s granny nanny. Now go and talk to the old dears, and I’ll see you later. Once I’ve been glowed up.’
The sound of someone singing ‘The Bare Necessities’ was drifting through the entrance hall when I arrived at Rosemount, and I followed it to the library, where I found Hugh Lloyd standing by Martine’s baby grand piano, holding forth to an appreciative gaggle of residents; most of them were singing along, every one of them was tapping a foot.
Lewis – also singing in a strong and melodic tenor – spotted me as soon as I walked in. His face lit up instantly; not just his brown eyes, but somehow his whole face. I smiled back. It was impossible not to, really.
He beckoned me over, patting the chair next to his. ‘Hugh’s taking requests,’ he whispered. ‘We’re down a Disney musical rabbit hole!’
‘I’m supposed to be chatting with Dodie Lochmead,’ I whispered back.
Lewis nodded towards the front row where Dodie was lustily bellowing about fancy ants. ‘Maybe stay for a song or two? She’s having a whale of a time.’
I agreed, and when Hugh asked for requests ‘from any musicals, Disney or otherwise!’ Lewis and I both called out, ‘My Favourite Things!’ at the same time.
‘Good choice!’ Hugh turned to his accompanist, Kay. ‘I think we know this one, don’t we?’
She responded by playing the introduction and the front row cooed and clapped and turned up their hearing aids. It was, as the man in front of me loudly remarked, just like being on a cruise ship, ‘but without the pong of diesel’.
I leaned over to whisper in Lewis’s ear. ‘I didn’t have Hugh Lloyd down as an all-round entertainer?’
‘Rosemount is a magician’s hat, full of surprises.
’ He turned his head towards me before I could lean back; our faces ended up quite close together and I drew in a deep noseful of an attractive aftershave.
I think I’d expected Lewis to smell of something wholesome, like Imperial Leather or Head instead the library filled with residents as we sang our way through selections from My Fair Lady, Mary Poppins, a few hymns, a ‘Beatles magical mystery medley’ (which everyone kept up with, despite Kay refusing to give clues about which song was coming next) and for the big finish, ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.
At the end, a hoarse but glowing Hugh took a standing ovation. On the piano stool, Kay acknowledged the applause with a modest wave, and Pam served tea early ‘before everyone collapses’.
I genuinely couldn’t remember when I’d last had so much fun, and when I told Lewis, he looked so delighted, I thought he was going to hug me.
If he had, I don’t think I’d have minded, it had been that nice an afternoon. Martine would have loved it, I thought.
When Saturday, and Martine’s party, finally rolled around, I didn’t want to look as if I was waiting to be invited to join them, so I took Tomsk for a long walk in the morning and then went into town to get my own hair done.
I always felt more confident when I had a glossy curtain of hair to hide behind, and between that and a new dress which actually fitted (thank you, stress; thank you, Tomsk and your insatiable capacity for exercise), I was feeling pretty good about myself when I went back up to the flat, which I proceeded to tidy to an inch of its life, just in case Fraser decided to drop by.
I even cleaned Martine’s pottery dogs until they looked Crufts-worthy on their shelf.
Every so often, I glanced out of the window overlooking the garden to see what was going on.
During the week, Jackie had arranged for someone to tidy up the lawn and flowerbeds, and as I’d left for the hairdresser’s, caterers had arrived to set up afternoon tea.
‘I’m not beating myself up for not making a cake,’ she’d told me, as if I expected someone with her crazy work schedule to find time for baking. ‘I just want us to enjoy ourselves.’
To her credit, it looked like something from a magazine down there: a long table covered with snowy-white tablecloths, vases of lilacs and eucalyptus, sparkling glasses, tiered cake stands, and so on.
In pride of place was a porcelain tea service which I’d hunted out at her instruction from the storage boxes in the flat: ‘A wedding present,’ she explained.
‘Thought it was the perfect occasion to bring it out!’
It gave my conscience a momentary twinge when I found the tea service, thinking about Martine’s wish that the day not be about sad memories, but Jackie had been very specific, so I’d left it on the back step, carefully washed and dried.