Chapter 18
DAWN
Jemma answers on the second ring and just from her ‘Hello?’ I can tell she’s frazzled and in the middle of doing something she doesn’t want to do.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask, taking off my shoes and propping up the pillows on my bed so I can sit up against them. ‘You sound distressed.’
‘That’s because I am. This fucking thing.’ She sighs. ‘The window in my office has jammed. Something is wrong with the latch and it’s boiling in here. We’ve been having nice weather here this week, by the way, so don’t be all smug about the French sunshine.’
‘I’m delighted for you. Ask Iris to open the window, she’s the practical one.’
‘I can’t at the moment.’ I hear her plonk herself down in her chair.
‘Right, how are you? I can’t believe I’ve only had a couple of messages from you since you’ve been there.
You haven’t told me any details about this itinerary Henry drew up for you.
How has it been? What have you been doing? Tell me everything.’
‘You won’t like it.’
‘I still want to know.’
‘I’ve just come back from a day at a luxury spa.’
‘Oh, sod off.’
I chuckle. ‘Henry booked Megan and I in for a couple’s massage.’
‘How excruciating. She must have hated that.’
‘She was more awkward than ever.’
Jemma gives a light laugh. ‘I can imagine. But a spa day, that sounds wonderful.’
‘It made up for the horse trekking and camping the day before.’
She gasps. ‘He got you up on a horse? Did someone get photos and videos?’
‘If they did, I won’t be letting you or anyone else see any,’ I tell her in no uncertain terms. ‘It was an unforgettable experience I hope to forget very quickly.’
‘Sounds like you’re having the time of your life. How are things going with Megan?’ she asks cautiously, having borne witness to mine and Megan’s relationship in real time.
I take a deep breath, wondering how best to answer that question. ‘I can’t be sure. She’s . . . reserved. It’s hard to get through to her.’
‘These things take time, Dawn. What did you expect? What did Henry expect?’
‘Lord knows. That man was on a lot of medication.’
‘I quite like his way of thinking. Force the two of you together so you can finally work things out. Or finally explode. Both outcomes are healthier than how it stands.’
‘I don’t think she feels the need for us to work anything out. She’s got everything sorted.’ I pick a piece of fluff off my dress. ‘She doesn’t need a chaotic mess like me.’
‘Everyone needs you, Dawn. This is a difficult time for her.’
‘I know, I know. It’s this place. Sometimes it makes me forget the sadness of it all.’
‘Maybe that’s what Henry wanted,’ she points out. ‘That’s why he sent you there instead of asking you to take him on a final hurrah to places like Stonehenge and Big Ben.’
I laugh, feeling a sudden overwhelming surge of homesickness but one that revolves around Jemma. I wish I were with her or she were here, no matter where we were.
‘I’m probably making this whole process harder for Megan,’ I wonder aloud, heaving a sigh. ‘I’m trying to help where I can, but I don’t think she wants it and fair enough. I’m not sure she registers anything I’m saying.’
‘She registers everything, Dawn; you’re her mum,’ Jemma tells me flatly.
‘Hm.’ I inhale deeply through my nose. ‘Anyway, how are you? How’s Iris?’
‘I’m fine. Sort of.’ She clears her throat. ‘Iris is . . . taking a break.’
‘From work?’ I say with surprise.
‘From me, actually.’
I sit up straight. ‘Jemma, what do you mean? Are you all right?’
‘Do you remember when we all had lunch together and you noticed that Iris was stressed? You made a joke about her getting weighed down by all the redecorating she was doing,’ she says, doing her best to keep the sadness out of her voice but I can hear the wobble.
‘You’re very observant, you just got the wrong problem.
It wasn’t the house, it was us. Well, it was me.
She got fed up. We think a separation period is necessary. ’
‘Oh, Jemma!’
‘Don’t do that voice, Dawn, I’m fine. Really.
I’ve kept myself busy. Work has been chaotic enough to distract me.
You know summer is the busiest time for the business, so many events, both corporate and luxury.
I haven’t had much time to get upset, I’ve been too busy discussing visions, booking bands and arguing with my employees over which bespoke biscuits to order.
I would tell you if I was falling apart. ’
‘No, you wouldn’t.’
‘No, but you would know.’
I exhale, almost wanting to cry at the injustice of my brilliant, decent friend ever having to suffer anything.
I feel winded by this news. Jemma and Iris have been together so long, I thought that they were indestructible.
Sure, they have their spats like any couple, but they’re so respectful of one another, so kind and understanding.
I looked up to them and their marriage. I had no idea – no idea – that this might happen.
Jemma says I’m observant, but how could I have missed this?
What a front they’ve put on. What a performance.
I didn’t see any strain or misery, only content normality. My god, I really don’t know anything.
‘Do the kids know?’ I ask.
‘Yes, I’ve told them. Only them. And now you.
They’ve been great about it.’ I hear the wobble again.
‘Supportive, understanding. Upset, obviously, but you know. They’ve visited to check in on me.
And I know they’ve been to see her, too.
Look, it’s not a divorce, it’s a separation.
We’re not giving up yet. I’m certainly not.
It was her idea, but I don’t think she’s given up completely either. We’ll work on it.’
‘Did Iris tell you her reasons for wanting the separation?’ I ask cautiously, not wanting to step too far but also desperate for details so I can get my own head round it.
‘The usual complaint amplified. I work too much. I don’t prioritise her. And us.’ She pauses, before adding quietly, ‘Of course, my natural reaction to that is to work harder.’
‘Do you want me to come home? I can book a flight.’
‘No, I do not,’ she says crossly. ‘You are there for Henry and for Megan, don’t you dare break your promises to them.
And besides, I wouldn’t have time to see you anyway.
When you’re home, you can come over and do your best to convince me I’m not a pathetic failure, but until then, I promise you, I am fine. I’ve got the dogs. They keep me going.’
‘If you need me, you’ll say.’
‘Yes.’
‘No, you won’t.’
‘Probably not.’ She chuckles. ‘But I will phone to hear your voice if I’m in a real mess, that I will do.’ She groans loudly. ‘God, look at us, Dawn. I thought by now we’d have everything worked out, didn’t you?’
I smile sadly, the phone hot pressed against my ear. ‘That sounds a bit boring. The fun is in the working out, isn’t it?’
‘How exhausting.’
As the conversation tails off, I wonder if now could weirdly be the right time to tell her about my diagnosis. I know she’ll be furious with me when she finds out how long I’ve known. How long I’ve kept it from everyone in the hope it doesn’t really have to be true.
‘Jemma,’ I begin croakily, ‘there’s something . . . I have to tell you something.’
‘Yes?’ she says, alert and listening.
No matter what she’s going through, she wants to be there for me. That’s the way we work, the way we’ve always worked. The way most women work, I’ve found.
‘I . . .’
The words are in my mouth, formed, ready to go. But I bottle it.
‘My publisher dropped me,’ I say instead.
‘What?’
‘I had lunch with my editor before I flew out here and . . . Anyway, I know this is nothing compared to what you’re dealing with at the moment and I don’t want to add more to your plate—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, my plate has plenty of room!’ she insists, sounding outraged on my behalf. ‘Dawn, those stupid bastards.’
‘Not so stupid, if I’m honest,’ I admit in a strained voice, my chest aching at the truth.
‘I haven’t had a success in years. Many years.
Almost three decades. Sales have never come close to the Heartlodge series.
They let me go on for longer than they should have.
It makes business-sense to let me go. I’m very expensive,’ I add to lighten the tone.
‘Literature shouldn’t be about business!’ she cries. ‘It’s about the quality of the story.’
‘I’ve been lacking there, too.’ I cover my face with my free hand.
‘God, Jemma, my latest book was so bad, I felt mortified sending it to them, but I convinced myself that I was being self-deprecating. They have now confirmed that I was not being self-deprecating, the book really is a load of shit.’
‘Dawn, I’m so sorry about this,’ she says with such feeling my eyes fill with tears. ‘I don’t care what you say, those people really are stupid bastards. And you’ll prove it.’
‘Oh?’
‘This is a good thing,’ she declares. ‘You needed a flare up the butt.’
‘Good lord, I don’t think that’s the right phrase.’
‘You need purpose! A reason to write, a chance to think outside the box! This is going to be the best thing that ever happened for your career. You are going to write a bestseller so brilliant it will make your old publisher cry with despair. You have something to prove now.’
‘I have started writing something out here . . .’
‘Of course you have! You’re like Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady!
You know that song, “Just you wait, Henry Higgins, just you wait!” You know?
Let me google the lyrics.’ I hear her tapping away at her computer and I chuckle at her uncontrollable tangent, happy to let her go off on it.
‘Here we go, yes. “You’ll be sorry but your tears will be too late”. There!’
‘Very rousing.’
I swing my legs off the bed and find myself wandering out to the balcony.
‘Trust me, this is a good thing. I’m excited for you.’
I hesitate. ‘I really am sorry about you and Iris, Jemma.’
‘Yes, me too,’ she says, her enthusiasm fading, replaced with sorrow.
‘I’m glad you told me about the book news, Dawn.
I know it’s difficult to talk about these things.
No one wants to admit when they feel like they’ve failed at something, yet that feeling of failure is something we all have in common. And often they’re not failures at all.’
‘Thank you for talking to me about Iris. That’s much harder.’
‘Mm. Did I tell you that Sarah came round for tea last week?’ she says as though she’s suddenly remembered something important.
‘Your neighbour? That’s nice.’
‘Ask me what she brought with her.’
‘All right, what did she bring?’
‘Her own cucumbers,’ she says aghast. ‘She’d grown them herself. Then brought some over when she came round to give to me as a gift. I mean, really.’
‘That is impressive,’ I agree as I look across the vineyard in the sunset.
‘She told me she’s just planted chicory. Chicory, for god’s sake. I had to google what it was after she left,’ she says. ‘You know what? When I grow up, I want to be just like Sarah.’
I burst out laughing and we continue to talk about nothing for a long time because, right now, that’s exactly what we both need.