Chapter Seventeen
Evelyn
Waiting in reception for her taxi the next morning, Evelyn feels her insides knotting up with agitation. Today’s the day, Rose, she thinks, clutching her handbag, in which nestles the sandwich bag containing her late wife’s final scoop of ashes. It’s taken her eight years, but she’s got to say goodbye now. Let go for ever, with only an emptiness stretching ahead. Oh Lord. She still isn’t sure if she’ll be able to do it, when the moment comes. Is that dreadfully weak of her? She suspects as much.
She checks her watch again– ten past nine– and wonders what’s happened to her cab. She’ll give it another five minutes before asking someone to check the booking, she decides, trying to quell her feelings of impatience. It’s not as if she’s in a rush.
The weather outside looks glorious, at least – blue sky and sunshine, the temperature forecast to be in the high twenties again. Only the faintest breeze, too; a bonus when one is scattering ashes. In Sicily, where she had chosen to leave part of Rose’s ashes in Petralia, a sudden gust of wind had rushed in at the worst possible moment, sending the gritty grey dust of her wife straight into Evelyn’s face. Typical Rose, who had loved a practical joke, Evelyn had thought, wiping her eyes, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
A large black car pulls up outside just then. Aha. Is this her ride at last? She rises expectantly as the driver gets out and enters the lobby, keys in hand and a clipboard under one arm. Here we go, she thinks, but when the man goes up to one of the receptionists and speaks to her in Greek, the receptionist– it’s that nice Duska, Evelyn notices– doesn’t look over in Evelyn’s direction, instead nodding and picking up her phone. ‘Good morning, madam,’ she hears her say into the receiver. ‘Your car hire is here. Could you come down to reception and sign for it, please?’
Feeling rather self-conscious for having stood up, and unable to wait any longer, Evelyn approaches the other receptionist. ‘ Kalimera ,’ she greets her. ‘Ibooked a taxi for nine, but it hasn’t arrived. My name is Evelyn Chambers, and Iwas hoping to go to Fiskardo. Would you mind checking for me that a car is still coming, please?’
‘Of course,’ says the woman, whose name badge reads Julia. She has long dark hair that falls, poker-straight, either side of her face, and a millimetre-perfect fringe. Dialling a number on her phone, she then speaks quickly into it, her expression gradually becoming more exasperated. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says to Evelyn after a few moments, ‘there has been some kind of mix-up. Their booking system, it. . .’ She mimes an explosion, complete with sound effects. ‘They apologise and have offered a half-price fare for your journey, but won’t be able to get a car here for perhaps thirty minutes.’ She rolls her eyes apologetically. ‘Are you happy to wait?’
‘Oh dear.’ Evelyn doesn’t know whether to feel more annoyed or relieved that she’s been given extra time with her bag of ashes. Then she hears footsteps behind her, followed by a familiar voice. ‘Miranda Vallance for the car?’ the voice says.
She turns her head to see a woman with a shoulder-length chestnut bob– goodness, that must be another wig, if it really is Miranda. Then her brain catches up. ‘Actually,’ she says to Julia, ‘let me see if Ican come up with an alternative. One minute.’
As well as the new wig, Miranda’s wearing taupe-coloured cigarette pants and a sleeveless gauzy black top; quite the transformation from the kaftan-and-swimwear look Evelyn has previously seen her in. Hovering at a polite distance, she watches as Miranda signs something contractual on the man’s clipboard, then follows them when they go out to inspect the car together. No harm in asking, she tells herself, as the man points out a dent in the passenger door and a scratch on the front left bumper. ‘Ihope this isn’t cheeky of me,’ Evelyn puts in when this business seems to have concluded, ‘but you’re not going to Fiskardo by any chance today, are you? Only I’ve had a bit of a taxi mix-up and. . . Well, Ifind myself rather stranded, unfortunately.’
It’s an exaggeration, yes– technically she’s only stranded for thirty minutes, but Miranda doesn’t have to know that. Just for good measure, Evelyn puts a hand on her chest and glances worriedly at the sun. ‘Iwouldn’t ask, only Iwas hoping to get away as early as possible, rather than spend too long out in the heat,’ she goes on. ‘Given my condition, and everything.’
Miranda has donned a pair of fifties-style cat-eye sunglasses but, even so, Evelyn can feel the suspicion in her stare. The man with the clipboard wants her to sign something else now, presumably acknowledging the dent and scratch, and she scrawls her signature with a flourish and gives the clipboard back to him. Then she asks, ‘You’re not one of those annoying back-seat drivers, are you, Evelyn?’
‘Definitely not,’ Evelyn assures her. ‘Ipride myself on being a respectful passenger at all times.’
‘Ilike to listen to loud music while I’m driving,’ Miranda goes on, poker-faced. ‘Maybe too loud for someone like you.’
‘Oh good, Ilove a bit of loud music,’ Evelyn replies. ‘Especially if it’s Bach.’
‘It won’t be B—’
‘And if Idecide your taste is too awful, Ican simply pop my hearing aid out,’ Evelyn goes on, demonstrating. ‘So it won’t be a problem.’
A small laugh splutters out of Miranda. ‘Oh, well, that’s very good of you,’ she says sarcastically. There’s a beat, and then she adds, ‘Fiskardo, did you say? Sure, we can go there.’
‘Thank you so much,’ Evelyn says. ‘That’s very kind. Ican chip in for petrol if you like—’
‘It’s fine, Ican afford it,’ Miranda tells her drily.
‘Or maybe Icould treat us both to lunch then? Anyway, let me just cancel my taxi, and I’ll be right with you.’ She’s smiling all of a sudden, feeling better about the journey now that she won’t be alone. ‘Road trip, here we come!’
Five minutes later, Miranda is familiarising herself with the car’s controls and muttering, ‘Stay on the right, stay on the right,’ under her breath as she starts the engine. There are a few jerky bunny-hops while she adjusts to the unfamiliar clutch, but then she settles in and drives them smoothly off the hotel premises. Evelyn, who would have pegged the younger woman as a headstrong, brash kind of driver, is relieved to discover her chauffeur is actually comparatively calm behind the wheel. The car is a four-by-four, a Hyundai, she thinks, and has tinted windows and comfortable seats. Far posher than the old Mini she and Rose used to bomb around in, that’s for sure.
‘So, what’s happening in Fiskardo then?’ Miranda asks as they head out of town. ‘Have you been before?’
‘Yes, with Rose– my other half,’ Evelyn says, nudging her handbag down in the footwell with her sandal. She isn’t sure whether or not to mention what she’s planning to do when they arrive. Some people get very weird when you mention a loved one’s ashes, as if you are actually toting a dead body around with you. ‘We had our honeymoon here on the island, back in the day.’
‘Did you? That’s nice.’ The road has opened up a little and a vineyard stretches away down the hillside on Evelyn’s left, row after row of vines hung with clusters of fat dusty grapes.
There’s a pause. Normally, Evelyn would take this as her cue to ask Miranda if she was married herself, or if there was a dashing partner waiting for her back home. But, truth be told, Evelyn spent a nosey half hour last night looking up Miranda online and is pretty certain she already knows the answer to that. She has been unlucky in love, from what Evelyn has read, with a few short-lived relationships with soap stars Evelyn has never heard of, as well as a fling with a YouTuber (absolutely no idea) and a dishy-looking footballer. ‘Iwatched your show, by the way,’ she says instead. ‘You’re wonderful in it.’
Miranda glances at her quickly, possibly disbelievingly. ‘Thank you,’ she says. Then, in a casual tone, she asks, ‘Which episode was it?’
Talk more about how wonderful Iam, is what Evelyn hears, so she obliges her driver– she is getting a lift out of her, after all– by praising a scene in which Miranda’s character had to deal with an aggressive patient. ‘Iloved the way you portrayed her humanity,’ she says, because she imagines all actors like to hear these words. ‘Ithought it was a very strong performance.’
‘Thank you,’ Miranda says. She’s sitting a little straighter in her seat now. ‘She’s a good character to play, Doctor Kelly, exactly because of that,’ she goes on. ‘Imean, she’s a bit of a cow, most of the time, and gives people hell, but every now and then you see her vulnerability. Her depths.’ She hesitates, then that casual tone of hers returns. ‘Iwas actually nominated for a TV award this year, for that role.’
‘Were you? Wow!’ says Evelyn, even though this is something else she knows from her internet trawls. ‘Did you win?’ She could kick herself as soon as she asks the question, remembering that, no, actually it was Miranda’s rival Bonnie who scooped that particular trophy. ‘Imean– not that these things are the be-all and end-all,’ she adds quickly, then changes the subject before Miranda has to answer. ‘By the way, I’m not taking you miles out of your way, am I?’ she asks. ‘Where were you planning to go today before Istuck my interfering oar in?’
‘Oh. . . just. . . Idon’t know really,’ Miranda replies, eyes flicking up to her mirror to check on the silver BMW that is driving too close behind her– right up her bum ,
as Rose, who hated pushy drivers, would have said. ‘Overtake me then if you want, there’s plenty of room,’ she mutters aloud to it, then, as the BMW does just that, with a great roar of its engine, adds ‘Arsehole’ under her breath. ‘Ifelt a bit as if the walls were closing in on me, there at the hotel,’ she goes on to Evelyn. ‘As if everyone was getting in my face, if you know what Imean.’
‘Idon’t, but Ican imagine,’ says Evelyn, thinking of all those column inches and headlines about the younger woman that popped up on her iPad, page after page, opinion after opinion. How dizzying it must be to feel as if the whole world is gawking at you on the sly. No wonder she lost it yesterday at the pool when that blonde girl was so rude. ‘It can’t be easy, being constantly gossiped about.’
Miranda’s nostrils flare. ‘Ahh. Been snooping around, have you?’ she asks in an unfriendly way. ‘Iseem to remember you’d never heard of me last time we spoke.’
‘Not snooping ,’
Evelyn says hastily. ‘Just—’
‘I’m surprised you’d want to get in the car with me, now you apparently know everything about me. Aren’t you scared that Mad Miranda’– she deliberately swerves out of her lane and back, her voice rising– ‘will drive herself off the nearest cliff? That’s what the press all seem to want.’
There are no other cars on the road– the silver BMW is long gone already– and Miranda isn’t driving particularly fast, but all the same Evelyn grabs the handle in her door as they swerve. ‘Sorry,’ they both say in the next moment.
‘Really, Iam,’ Evelyn adds. ‘After Iwatched the show, Ilooked you up to see what else you’d been in, that’s all. Ipromise. But some of those stories that came up about you seemed very unkind. And untrue, a lot of them, too, Ibet.’ She’s thinking again of the one that said Miranda was having an affair with her sister’s husband, a shady-looking chap called Felix, who has one of those awful thin moustaches. That can’t be true, surely? Not least because of the diabolical moustache.
‘I’m sorry too,’ Miranda says in a quieter voice. ‘I’m not a dangerous driver, don’t worry. Ipromise I’ll get you to Fiskardo in one piece. Ijust. . .’ She exhales, and the sound is one of pure frustration. ‘My temper keeps running away with me. Ifeel a bit. . . out of control. Partly because I’m just so sick of everybody knowing my business.’
‘Of course you are,’ Evelyn says. ‘Although Ihope you didn’t mean that about driving yourself off the nearest cliff. Not for my sake but yours. You are. . . okay, aren’t you? Well– Ican see you’re not. But if you feel like you really can’t cope, then—’
‘Thanks, Evelyn,’ Miranda cuts in. ‘But I’m okay. Not going to do anything silly.’
There’s a pause where it feels as if they both exhale. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Evelyn says. Time to lighten things up around here, she decides. ‘If only because a taxi to Fiskardo would have set me back an absolute fortune . You’re saving me a packet by taking me.’
Miranda’s gaze remains on the road, but Evelyn sees some of the tension leave her face. Phew.
‘Tell me something about your honeymoon, about– Rose, did you say?’ she asks. ‘Idon’t want to talk about me any more.’
‘Copy that.’ Evelyn glances down at her bag and feels an ache of love in her heart. ‘Well, it all started when a new couple moved into the street, over fifty years ago now, and invited us to their housewarming party. . .’