Chapter 50
FIFTY
Beatrice looked around the apartment, her hands on her hips. The pictures had been removed from their hooks on the wall, swaddled in bubble wrap and stacked in a corner. The children’s clothes had been laundered, neatly folded and placed in their suitcases; their cabin bags were equally carefully packed with drinks, snacks, crayons and paper, their favourite teddies perched on top ready to accompany them on the journey. What remained was only what belonged to the landlord, not the family – larger items of furniture; crockery and glassware – and Peter’s clothes and enough towels and bedlinen for him to use during his handover period.
There was nothing more for her to do here. Well – one thing. The most important thing.
She heard the swish of the elevator doors and Frances came in with Slate and Parker, raindrops sparkling on their hair.
‘I went down the big slide, Bibi,’ Slate told her proudly.
‘You did?’ Beatrice squatted down in front of him. ‘That was brave. Were you scared?’
‘A bit. But Mommy was waiting for me at the bottom and it was my last chance.’
Parker thumped down on the floor, her thumb in her mouth. She’d been tetchy all day; Beatrice hoped she wasn’t coming down with something, but suspected it was just the knowledge of impending change.
‘Library,’ she said, her voice muffled.
Beatrice stroked her hair. She’d put it up with a new hair tie that morning, brushing it carefully, conscious that it was the last time she would do it.
‘There’s no time to go to the library,’ she said gently. ‘Your daddy’s going to be home soon and then you’re going to go to the airport and get on an airplane and fly back to America.’
‘The place looks great, Bibi,’ Frances said. ‘I’m so grateful for all your hard work.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Beatrice replied automatically, scrambling to her feet. ‘I think I’m all done here. The courier isn’t due until the morning but I’ll leave my key with the concierge – he knows to expect them.’
‘That’s right – there’s no need for you to hang around,’ Frances said, and Beatrice filled in the rest of the sentence in her mind: It’ll only upset the kids.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Come on, Parker and Slate, give me a cuddle.’
She pulled the children towards her, pressing their small bodies against hers, breathing in the smell of them for the last time. She’d never see Slate ride a pony, never read Parker another bedtime story. Within a few weeks, they’d probably have forgotten all about her.
The pain was intense – almost physical. But she couldn’t let the children see it; she had to stay strong and calm for them. She held on to them for as long as she dared, then quickly kissed each of their heads in turn and stood up.
‘This is for you.’ Smiling, Frances handed her a small bag, duck-egg blue, printed with the Tiffany logo. ‘It’s just a trinket, to say thank you from all of us.’
‘Thank you.’ Beatrice leaned in for a kiss, breathing in Frances’s Shalimar scent, feeling the sharpness of her jaw against her cheek. ‘I’ll treasure it. I’ve… It’s been wonderful, getting to know Slate and Parker. And you, of course. So thank you for that, too.’
Frances looked at her, her gaze astute. She knows , Beatrice realised. She knows exactly how I feel, but neither of us can acknowledge it.
‘I’d best be off, then,’ Beatrice said.
‘You take care, honey.’
Beatrice nodded miserably and Frances leaned in, patted her cheek and whispered to her, ‘Don’t be too sad.’
Almost blinded by tears, Beatrice turned away and pressed the button to open the elevator. There was no looking back now – no going back. Even a final glance at the children, a final hug, would only postpone the inevitable parting by a few seconds. There was no point. She stepped in, keeping her back to the elevator doors, hearing the swish and soft thunk as they closed.
Down at street level, she said her goodbyes to the concierge, leaving him with the neatly printed list of instructions and contact numbers she’d prepared as well as her key to the apartment. Then she walked slowly out into the rain.
It was only four o’clock, but already dark. She had nothing to do and nowhere to go. She felt bereft, alone with her sadness. She let her legs carry her automatically towards the bus stop, barely noticing the brightly lit windows of the library as she passed it.
Then its door swung open and, glancing reflexively over, she saw Neil emerging, his leather satchel slung over his shoulder, a knitted beanie pulled down over his shaven head. He recognised Beatrice too and waved, jogging over to catch her up.
‘Hey, Beatrice. Long time no see. How’re you doing?’ he asked.
Beatrice told him, just managing to keep her tears at bay.
‘Ah, that sucks.’ Neil’s voice was sympathetic, his eyes kind. ‘Those cute kids. You must be gutted.’
Beatrice nodded. ‘It’s just – I’m so worried they’ll miss me. Slate worries about monsters under his bed at night – what if the nanny in New York forgets to check for them? And Parker will only eat her toast if you put the butter on when it’s hot but then wait for it to get cold. But she’s too little to explain that – I only found out by trial and error.’
‘Hey.’ Gently, Neil punched her bicep. ‘Parker’s not going to starve and Slate’s not going to get eaten by monsters. You know that.’
Beatrice sniffed. ‘I know.’
‘Still sucks though,’ he said.
Beatrice nodded, then she said, ‘Neil? Remember you asked a while back – you said maybe we should go for a drink sometime, and we did, but I said I didn’t want it to be a proper date?’
Neil laughed. ‘That feels like quite a long time ago. I mean, we’ve basically been on holiday together since then.’
‘I know. But that was just as friends, right? I’d like… I’d like to see if we could be a bit more than friends. If you would. I know I’ve been shitty to you and I’m sorry, and I’ll understand if you say no.’
His face lit up in a grin, and Beatrice had her answer.
Half an hour later, she arrived back at the house on Damask Square. The comfort of Neil’s company gone, sadness had settled over her again like a damp, heavy blanket. She knew she’d get over it; she knew the kids would be all right, loved and cared for by their parents and Juanita, who’d known them long before Beatrice had. But the sense of loss was still raw, as painful as anything she’d ever known.
She slipped her key into the lock and pushed open the door, hoping she could steal unnoticed up to her room and cry, alone, until the worst of her sorrow had passed. But as soon as she stepped into the hallway, she stopped.
The house smelled different. It was as if she’d been transported somewhere else – back to her childhood home. She could almost feel the rug beneath her feet, although she knew it was bare floorboards. The music she could hear coming from the kitchen was Radio One on Orla’s boombox, but at the same time it was her mom playing Mozart on the piano in the living room.
It was the smell that was confusing her. A smell of childhood, rich and warm and comforting, sweet and savoury and spicy. As eagerly as she had when she was a little girl, Beatrice followed it through the house.
Orla was in the kitchen, cocooned by warmth and light and that familiar childhood aroma.
She smiled when she saw Beatrice, though uncertainty flickered in her eyes.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’re home early.’
Beatrice felt the scent surrounding her, almost as if she could reach out a finger and touch it. Cinnamon, nutmeg, butter and brown sugar – the exact smell that had filled her mom’s kitchen every autumn. She felt saliva fill her mouth at the same time as tears sprang to her eyes, and stood frozen in the doorway. All her emotions – sorrow at the loss of the children, regret at how she’d treated Neil, anger at Orla – swept over her in a wave. But as quickly as it hit her, the anger vanished.
Orla had never been her mother: never had the chance to buy her presents or dry her tears or bake her favourite things. But she was doing so now.
‘I made a pumpkin pie,’ Orla said, then added hesitantly, ‘I thought you might be homesick, as it’s Thanksgiving tomorrow.’
Beatrice dropped her bag and crossed the kitchen in three quick steps, throwing herself into Orla’s arms.