Chapter 35 Mother
Having rushed home in an Uber, trying to get in contact with Stephen most of the journey, I am not in the best of moods. It’s not the most thoughtful of messages. It’s liable to create all kinds of worries, if you are prone to such things.
I have only one thought – Nathan and Nelly.
I know I’m not as traditionally connected to them as most parents, but if I had to save anyone in the world, it would be them first. Well, not first. But once I’d ensured Purdy was OK, it would be Nelly first, then Nathan, then Sophie, and Stephen would be next.
I am also drunk, which means that I am not as clear-minded as I usually am. At home, I find Stephen rushing from room to room, looking quite dishevelled.
‘Are Purdy and the children OK?’ I ask immediately.
‘Yes. Yes. The children are fine,’ he says. ‘Couldn’t give a fuck about the cat.’
‘Unkind,’ I say.
‘Well, priorities, you know.’
‘Your text said it was urgent. I sent you several back.’
‘I’ve been on the phone since.’ Stephen stares. His face is not obviously sad, but there’s a dilation to his pupils and a slight pallor around his eyes.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Mum’s had a stroke.’
‘Oh, no, how terrible,’ I say, thinking that my little visit has worked miraculously well and so quickly too.
As I was leaving, I did pop into the kitchen to thank the maid for the tea and was pleased to see the teapot and cups stacked in the dishwasher.
I asked her if she could tell me what was in the herbal tea she’d used as it was so refreshing.
As she headed for the larder to fetch the tin, I located the compost bin and found the mulch of toxic leaves.
I took the whole bag, tied a knot and placed it in my handbag, leaving absolutely no evidence of my herbal concoction.
‘She’s bad, Lalla,’ he says, and looks completely lost.
‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. How worried you must be.
’ I bite my bottom lip in mimicry of someone stopping themselves crying.
If I’ve helped bring on a stroke, there’s hope of an additional bereavement, which would release much-needed funds to secure Hampstead.
I won’t clap my hands just yet, though. She’s a tough old bird.
‘She’s in intensive care at the Royal Brompton in Chelsea. Mrs Dekka called the ambulance.’
‘And is she conscious?’ I say, crossing my fingers.
‘They didn’t say. I’m going to see her now. I need to pack a bag.’
‘What for?’
‘I’ll stay at the house, so I’m close.’
‘How long do you think you’ll be gone for?’ I say, thinking of his savings account and my need to get five minutes alone with his phone.
‘How would I know, Lalla?’
‘Of course, but the partner interviews are happening next week.’
‘At this point in time, I don’t give a shit about being a partner.’
‘I understand,’ I say, throwing my arms around him to give him an enormous hug. This enables me to appear gracious, but also allows me to lift his phone from his back pocket.
‘Tell the kids I’ll see them soon. Aimée put them to bed. I just need to be with Mum.’
‘Don’t worry. Everything will be fine here,’ I say. Of course I’m also thinking that Foxtons have three interested buyers and, with Stephen away, I’ll have a clear run to try to get an offer. I make a mental note to get a cleaning company in to spruce up the house.
‘Thank you,’ he says.
At this point Aimée enters in a short T-shirt and, it would appear, an absence of anything underneath besides a thong. She stands there, hands on hips, and stares at Stephen.
‘Can we help?’ I say.
‘I can’t find my trousers,’ says Aimée, and smiles coyly.
‘I’m sure you have other trousers,’ I say, wondering if this is normal in France.
‘I need my velvet trousers,’ she says, staring at Stephen. ‘They hug my figure so well.’
‘I think you look fine as you are,’ I say.
‘Do you know where they are, Stephen?’ she says, and plays with the hem of her T-shirt.
Stephen is confused. I am envious of her endless and blemish-free legs but I reassure myself that age will get her eventually.
‘I have no idea,’ he says.
Aimée laughs. ‘Oh, Stephen, you are so funny!’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Aimée, not now!’ I say, realizing that this is her crude attempt to flirt with the man.
Aimée shoots a look of defiance in my direction, and shrugs as if to say, You asked for it.
‘Your trousers are in the airing cupboard on the landing. It’s the door you never open.’
Aimée lets out a guttural growl and walks towards the radio. ‘Would anyone like to dance?’ she says, turning on the radio. She looks back over her shoulder through a cascade of hair and starts to sway rhythmically.
‘My mother’s just had a stroke,’ says Stephen, so well trained in avoiding corporate sexual harassment claims that her presence in the room is causing him to sweat.
‘I think you really should go upstairs, Aimée,’ I say.
‘I’m just following instructions,’ Aimée says.
‘What’s going on?’ says Stephen, and he stumbles out of the room.
In an instant, Aimée drops the entire act, expresses disdain with a release of air from her lips and turns to me. ‘That’s two hundred pounds, would you like the same next week?’
‘That might work in France, Aimée, but an Englishman would never see that as flirting,’ I say.
‘Too much?’
‘Oh no, you would have to be a lot more direct than that,’ I say, furious at having wasted a good amount of testosterone gel, as well as ￡200.
Aimée leaves with one long sigh. I sit down, open Stephen’s phone, as I’ve long known his passcode, and transfer ￡200,000 from his savings account to our joint current account.
As it’s an internal transfer, there’s no upper limit, which is helpful.
I wait for the notice to ping on his phone.
Approve, then delete. If I hide his phone and make a payment to the estate agent while he’s focused on his mother, he won’t even notice.
I smile at myself in the bathroom mirror. Madeleine half dead, Hampstead half secured. I feel that everything is falling into place.