Chapter 6
Honor
‘You’d better have some freebies for me. You owe me big time.’
My sister Ally drums her hands on the wooden tabletop.
We’re having breakfast at the Cowshed spa in Clarendon Cross before walking up to Avondale Park and braving the hospice.
Despite all of Noah’s reassurance last night, I’m seriously spooked by the idea of walking into a place that’s basically a waiting room for death.
I can tell Ally feels the same under her bravado.
‘I do. Guilt presents.’ I haul a large, glossy Honor Chapman Cosmetics bag off the floor and onto her lap. ‘I wasn’t sure how many freebies I’d need to make up for the fact that you’re putting up our terminally ill mother and her nurse.’
‘Many, many freebies is the answer to that.’ Ally’s face is already buried in the carrier bag as if it’s a horse-bag. ‘Oh my Gooooood. You brought me the new tinted moisturiser. Thank you.’ She emerges from the bag and holds up a box in our signature rose-gold.
‘It’s not moisturiser. It’s iridescent primer. You’re welcome. We’re launching it exclusively in Selfridge’s next week. I figured death-watch earned you a pre-launch goodie or two.’
Ally blows me a kiss. ‘Thank yooooou. Thank you.’
‘I’m lucky you’re so easily pleased. All I have to do is bring you freebies. You have to look after Mum. How’s it going?’
‘It’s going. The nurse doesn’t have a huge amount to do at this point. She’s mainly keeping Mum company and prepping her meals when we’re all out.’
‘Still. It’s a big ask for you guys.’
Ally is a professor of Twentieth Century English Literature at King’s College.
She has two children, Ralph and Dottie, who are a couple of years younger than Serena and Rollo, and is married to Ted, who’s one of the most genuinely decent people I’ve had the good fortune to meet.
They live in Wimbledon, not far from where we grew up.
Mum’s been staying with them for the past month, and I feel gut-wrenchingly guilty about that fact every day.
It should have been me and Jackson taking Mum in.
But Mum put her foot down, said she didn’t feel comfortable being ill in our huge house—she actually called it a mausoleum—and that she’d lived in Wimbledon Village her whole adult life and didn’t want to stray too far (it will be interesting having to pitch a move to Good Vibes to her, if we like it).
The principal source of my guilt is the relief I feel that we haven’t had to bring the spectre of illness and death into our beautiful home.
Sickness scares the hell out of me. Mum’s always been an incredibly strong woman—well, until Dad passed a couple of years ago, anyway—and seeing her like she is at the moment is extremely upsetting.
There’s a part of me, I’m guiltily aware, that wants to stay the hell away from this new, sick version of Mum, no matter how awful that sounds to my own ears.
And now Ally, whose house is far smaller than ours, has Mum staying, and this nurse staying, and the burden it will all put on my sister will be enormous.
This Good Vibes place had better be a viable option, because, right now, it’s our only option.
‘It is what it is.’ Ally shrugs. ‘Yeah, it’s a pain at the moment, and it’s been weird and upsetting for the kids to see Grandma like this, but life isn’t all surface glamour. Sometimes you have to get stuck into the real stuff, y’know? And we do have limited time left with her, Duck Face.’
And that is the crux of the matter. I’m so scared of the realness of life that I do everything possible to avoid scratching the glossy surface of this lifestyle I’ve built: I’ve hired fixers to sweep my marital problems under the carpet, and publicists to paint a shiny picture of my family, and stylists and image consultants to ensure that the version of myself I portray to the public is flawless.
And the more I build up that veneer, layer by lustrous layer, the higher the stakes get, and the less well equipped I am to deal with anything real.
And somewhere, in a part of my mind I don’t allow myself to wander to, I know that this refusal to dig deep and grasp the most profound parts of life with both hands is costing me a real understanding of the human experience.
I know this because my therapist may have mentioned it once, or twice, or a million times.
Meanwhile, my sister is facing up to what needs to be done, fearlessly, while holding down a professorship and a family of her own.
‘I know I need to get stuck in,’ I tell Ally now. ‘I promise, if we move Mum to this place, I’ll do a lot more of the heavy lifting.’
My phone lights up and I look down. It’s a WhatsApp from Di.
‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘What?’ Ally pops a large piece of apple and bran muffin in her mouth. It looks delectable. I’m drinking green tea.
‘Di says there are some paps outside. I’m afraid walking’s out of the question. D’you mind if we drive up there?’
‘Your life is so fucked up. Honestly, I don’t know how you handle it. But that’s fine, Duck Face.’
She’s called me Duck Face ever since we saw Four Weddings and a Funeral for the first time.
Ally reckons that my face whenever I look in the mirror is as smug as Duck Face’s is when she sees her bridal wreath before her own (aborted) wedding.
It’s not, obviously, but unfortunately, the more something pisses me off, the more tightly a grasp my little sister holds on it, and the name has stuck. For years and years.
‘It’s part of the deal,’ I say now, looking wearily around.
The Cowshed is a tiny spa that’s part of the fabric of this corner of London.
It sits on the apex of two pretty streets, so there are windows all along two sides of the triangular room.
There’s just room on the ground floor for some obscenely comfortable terry-covered armchairs, where the mani-pedis take place, a large oval wooden table, where we’re sitting now, and a tiny kitchenette that manages to conjure up all manner of home-cooked goodies for which its owner, Soho House, has become so well-known.
‘So who’s this guy?’ Ally asks. ‘The mysterious doctor?’ She brushes some hair out of her eyes.
My sister is beautiful, though far lower-maintenance than me.
She’s wearing boyfriend jeans, Birkenstocks and a pretty white peasant top that I suspect is a recent haul from her insatiable H&M habit.
Her hair is longer and blonder than mine, thanks to flawless highlights.
Her hair is the only high-maintenance thing about her.
‘Nothing mysterious about him. He’s the son of my friend Elaine.
I hadn’t met him before. I knew her son was a doctor, but I didn’t realise he ran a hospice—I suppose I zoned out that information because it wasn’t relevant at the time.
Anyway, he’s very nice. Very—impressive.
And right now, I have no bloody clue what we’re supposed to do, so I’ll take all the hand-holding I can get. Right?’
‘Definitely.’ Ally wipes her mouth with a napkin, which seems pointless, because she then rams more muffin in. ‘So,’ she says with her mouth full. ‘Talk to me about Dick Face. What lines is he feeding you this time?’
‘Duck Face and Dick Face. No wonder you’re a shining star in the King’s College English Department.’
‘Stop deflecting. Sorry’—this as a crumb shoots out of Ally’s mouth in my direction. ‘Tell me you’ve confronted him about all this bullshit.’
‘I’ve danced around it.’ I lower my voice and glare at my sister to do the same. ‘Believe me, I’m livid about all this.’ I gesture at the window, where the paps are presumably circling.
‘You’re livid the press knows, or you’re livid Jackson is shagging that mythical creature?’
‘Come on. You know we have an arrangement.’
‘I know, and I still think it’s messed up, but don’t you ever worry that he’ll fall for one of them? I mean, shooting a TV show must have been pretty intense for them, being in, like, a little bubble together.’
‘I am worried about that.’ I look up from my teacup. ‘I’m going to have it out with him. He’s around this evening, so I’ll ask him what’s going on.’
‘You guys are so weird.’ Ally shudders. ‘God, the idea of having to have a chat like that with Ted… It gives me the heebie jeebies.’
‘I get that it’s—unorthodox. But you’ve got to understand, what Jackson and I have is as much a business as a relationship.
We’ve both worked ridiculously hard to get to this place.
He has needs that he goes to other women for, and I get the rest of him.
And he’s a great dad, when he’s around, and we’re happy, in our own way. It works for us, basically.’
‘But you have to share your husband with other women.’
‘I have to share my husband with the world. He’s public property—everyone wants a bit of him, and it’s been that way for as long as I’ve known him.
Look, your stance comes from the fact that you blindly accept monogamy to be the default acceptable state for a relationship, despite the fact that your students must argue this point with you all day long.
There’s nothing to say people have to be monogamous in a marriage, except for the weight of centuries of social and cultural norms.’
I sit back and fold my arms, but Ally doesn’t take the bait.
‘You’re monogamous.’
‘Yes, yes, I am, but that’s because I get my kicks elsewhere: from watching my company grow and my kids grow and being around amazing, smart, stimulating people. I don’t need any more men in my life. I have quite enough on my plate as it is.’
Ally raises her eyebrows. ‘Fair enough, but have you ever had the chat with Jackson? Is he on board with you playing away if you wanted to?’
My sister always manages to make me feel defensive, mainly because she never shies away from asking me the exact things I hope she won’t ask.
‘Not explicitly, no.’
‘What do you think he would say if you took a lover?’ The last three words are in a French accent.
‘You’re ridiculous. I’m not taking a lover. And—I’m sure his nose would be out of joint, initially, because I’m not sure being cuckolded goes with his alpha male reputation, but then I’m sure he’d realise it was just his ego getting in the way and he’d come around.’
‘Hmm.’ Ally’s going to take far more convincing than that.
‘That I would like to see.’ She must see the exhaustion on my face, because she puts an affectionate hand on my arm.
‘Let’s go and pump this doctor for all the information we can get.
Right, shall we face these dickheads? Maybe I can put my arm around you and pretend to be your lover.
That’ll distract them from your Dick Face husband. ’