Chapter 11
‘Amanda! Hi!’ Celia is gripping her phone. She almost didn’t answer it – she and Terri and Logan have only just arrived back at her flat – but something niggled at her. Why is Amanda calling? She never calls. Something terrible must have happened.
‘Hey, Celia,’ Amanda starts. ‘How are things? Is this a good time?’
‘Erm, uh… it’s not the greatest time, actually…’
‘Oh, you’re at work, right?’
‘Actually, I’m just?—’
‘Still at that florist’s?’
‘No, um, they shut down.’ About ten years ago. Celia is standing in the middle of her kitchen. Terri is mouthing, ‘Just hang up!’ and Logan looks baffled as to why his mother is even conducting a phone conversation right now.
‘Aw, shame. So what’re you up to now?’ Amanda asks.
Apart from catching Geoff doing it doggy style with another woman in a rancid caravan? ‘I, um… I work at another shop. A boutique in?—’
‘Oh, cool! A little independent place?’
‘Uh, yes.’
‘So you’re in fashion too!’
‘I… I suppose so,’ Celia says, keen to wrap up this call because she needs to sit down, ingest strong alcohol and try to wrap her head around what has happened today. The unlocked caravan. Geoff’s hairy backside. It feels like she imagined it all. ‘So, are you okay?’ she asks quickly.
‘Um, yeah! I’m good. Crazy busy, y’know.
Just the usual. Work-work-work, too much to juggle, but that’s just life, eh!
’ Celia frowns, still confused as to why Amanda has called her when they haven’t spoken on the phone since something like 2006.
‘So lovely to see you at our wedding,’ she goes on.
‘Shame we didn’t get to chat properly. So anyway, how’re you? ’
Haven’t they done this bit already? ‘Good. Great!’
‘So, any news? You must have news!’
Celia opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out.
‘How’s your dad?’
‘Still in Wales, I think.’ He hardly ever replies to my texts so your guess is as good as mine.
‘And your mum?’
Drunk, probably. ‘She’s great!’
‘And Laurence?’
Celia is too taken aback to remind her that her son is called Logan, and now Terri is gesticulating to her to get off the phone. ‘He’s fine.’
‘Still into his Rubik’s cube?’
‘No, he’s doing mycology.’
‘Biology? Ah, amazing! How old is he now? Fifteen? I’m terrible, I lose track…’
‘He’s twenty-four,’ Celia replies, but already Amanda is babbling over her.
‘Crazy, isn’t it? How time flies? Oh, and thanks for the wedding present. That beautiful vase. I meant to message to say we love it…’
Terri is trying to talk to Celia now. ‘Say you’re busy,’ she commands.
‘Oh, d’you have a customer?’ Amanda asks.
‘A customer?’
‘In your shop.’
‘No, no. I’m at home?—’
‘I thought you were at work?’
‘No,’ Celia says forcefully. A small silence hovers. ‘In fact, I really can’t talk right now, Amanda,’ she blurts out as tears spring suddenly into her eyes.
‘Oh God, Celia. I’m sorry. Are you… okay?’
‘I’m not, I’m afraid. This, uh, thing’s happened with Geoff and I’m going to have to?—’
‘Has he had an accident?’
Why is Amanda asking her all this stuff? Why is she having to explain?
‘No, it’s more of a personal thing and I have to go, I’m sorry…’ With a gulp she finishes the call abruptly.
Now Terri presses a mug of tea into Celia’s hands – she’d prefer wine, but accepts it – and enfolds her in a hug, and Logan pats her shoulder ineffectually.
He means well, though, and Celia is relieved at least to be off the bloody phone and at home, where she feels safe, with the people she feels closest to.
No pink CD was blaring on the drive home from the caravan site. Young hearts were not running free. There was no ribbing Logan about his course, calling him ‘Mushroom Man’, or joking about him boiling up fungi for hallucinogenic tea.
‘He’s in there with a woman,’ Celia had announced to her son and best friend after she’d blundered out of the caravan.
Logan stared at her. ‘What d’you mean? What’re they doing?’
Christ, did she have to spell it out? Draw a diagram? ‘ He’s having sex with someone,’ she cried, in case he’d been under the illusion that they’d been icing cupcakes or doing a crossword together, and that had silenced him for the whole journey home.
Now he is hunched mutely by the cooker. ‘You know you can stay with me for as long as you want,’ Terri says. ‘Both of you, I mean. If Geoff comes back here.’
‘Will he, though?’ Logan exclaims. ‘I mean, will he dare, after what he’s done?’
‘I don’t know, love. I don’t know anything right now.’ Celia shakes her head as Terri waves a plate of custard creams in front of her. Her skin feels tender, as if lightly scoured, from all the salty crying. The doorbell rings and Celia flinches.
‘I’ll get it,’ Terri announces, but Celia shakes her head.
‘No, just leave it. It might be him.’
‘I’ll tell him to fuck off then.’
‘If it was Dad, wouldn’t he just… come in ?’ Logan ventures.
‘He’s scared, maybe,’ Terri suggests as the bell rings again.
‘Just leave it, Mum,’ Logan says. ‘Whoever it is, they’ll soon go away.’
Celia, who has spent the past hour crying at her kitchen table, doesn’t care whether they go away or stand there waiting until Christmas.
She can barely think. But then the bell ding-dongs yet again and it occurs to her that perhaps it’s Geoff’s lover, come to have it out with her. Is she going to suggest a duel ?
With Terri at her heels, she marches through to answer the door and flings it open aggressively. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi! Are you Celia?’ The woman is very tall and skinny with a large quantity of crinkly reddish hair tumbling over her shoulders.
This is definitely not haggis-en-croute woman and the man at her side is not Geoff.
Her husband is a sandy-haired two-timing shitbag whom she could happily cosh with her secateurs, and this is just a normal, pleasant-looking man, with wavy, dark brown hair and a hint of stubble around his jaw, clutching a cactus in a pot.
Even in her highly emotional state, Celia registers a trichocereus requiring urgent re-potting in a mixture comprising 50 per cent inorganic material such as pumice and perlite and decomposed granite.
‘Er, yes. Yes, I’m Celia.’ She tries to calm her galloping thoughts.
‘And this is the houseplant hospital?’ the man asks brightly.
‘That’s right,’ Celia starts. ‘But actually, today’s a bit?—’
‘Not right now,’ Terri announces loudly, having arrived at Celia’s side. ‘We’re at capacity. All hospital beds are full.’
‘Oh.’ The man’s expression falls. ‘Could we, erm… just ask for a bit of advice then, please?’
‘Not today,’ Terri snaps, and Celia sees him flinch.
The woman steps forward. ‘But I thought you did doorstep consultations ?’ she says, as if Celia has somehow been misleading the public.
‘I’m sorry,’ she starts, shaking her head. ‘I can’t?—’
‘We’re not doing anything today,’ Terri declares, arms folded.
Celia catches the woman throwing her husband an exasperated look. She wants to help, and in any other circumstances she’d be happy to dispense advice for free right here, as she often does. She hates to see a plant looking sorry for itself when the correct care would put things right.
‘It’s just… it’s really important to us, isn’t it, Enzo?’ The woman’s eyes widen plaintively as she places a hand on his arm. She turns back to Celia. ‘The kids are back from their school trip this afternoon. Mathilde’s going to be so upset…’
‘Oh, is she?’ She should help, Celia thinks. This is a child’s cactus. She knows how attached she’d become to her own plants in the garden she created as a young girl.
‘Yes, it belonged to her grandparents,’ the woman adds, ‘and they’ve gone now. Passed away. It was all Mathilde wanted when their house was cleared.’
Something twists at Celia’s heart. ‘So it’s an heirloom plant?’
‘Well, sort of,’ Enzo starts, looking a little uneasy now.
‘Yes, exactly,’ his wife says quickly.
‘I don’t think there’s much hope for it,’ announces Terri, as if she knows the first thing about plants. She virtually murdered a xanthosoma until Celia stepped in.
‘You mean… it’s a lost cause?’ Enzo’s face falls.
He has kind eyes, Celia decides – and a trustworthy face.
A slight accent too, she’s noticed. Perhaps he’s French?
She glances at Terri, grateful that’s she’s here for her, as she has been all these years.
But this is her houseplant hospital and her life.
‘ Nothing’s a lost cause,’ she says.
‘Really?’ Enzo smiles and she sees a glimmer of hope in his eyes. But just as Celia is about to examine the poor cactus, Terri shakes her head firmly.
‘We can’t deal with this now.’
Of course she’s right. ‘I’m sorry,’ Celia starts. ‘This isn’t the best time. Give me a call in the week and leave me a voicemail. You’ll find me under houseplant hospital, Celia Bloom?—’
‘In the week isn’t any good to us,’ the woman announces, dark eyes flashing. ‘We need you to do something now ?—’
‘I’m sorry, I—’ Celia starts.
‘Isn’t this supposed to be a hospital? Don’t you take emergency admissions?’
‘D’you mind ?’ Terri snaps, and Celia catches the man grimacing, as if distinctly uncomfortable with his wife’s pushiness.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, catching his eye. ‘If I could, I’d help you, but I can’t right now.’
‘Oh, no problem at all.’ His cheeks flush. ‘Thanks anyway. We should’ve called rather than just turning up like this.’
‘That would be better,’ she says.
He nods, and although Celia is relieved to close the door, she still feels a pang of regret because obviously that sorry-looking cactus is extremely important to their child. She also hates being rude to anyone. She simply can’t bear it.
Still, hopefully they’ll call and, when she’s not quite so demented, she’ll do whatever she can to put things right.