Chapter 18
However, the next day Celia can’t bring herself to broach the subject of Amanda moving on – or the day after that. Because now the initial shock has subsided, it’s not so terrible having her around the flat.
Amanda has been making sure that Celia showers daily and does not spend the entire day in ratty pyjamas. Frankly, it’s been quite a novelty being around someone who notices what she’s wearing/doing as, despite Celia’s closeness to Logan, he is hardly up to the job of taking care of her.
Meanwhile Amanda has also been out grocery shopping and presented her with poke bowls and exotic salads and fruit platters.
Proper lunches to be eaten from bowls and plates, instead of a bland ham sandwich from a Tupperware box.
That’s what Celia usually takes with her on her shop days, as if to atone for her occasional secret Pret splurges.
She has never sat down to such dazzling offerings in her life.
But then, she has spent almost a quarter of a century with a man who’ll cut the mouldy bit off a tomato and insist that it’s ‘fine’.
Then on Wednesday afternoon, when Terri has dropped in, Amanda returns from town brandishing a ‘house gift’ as she calls it. ‘“Powerful masticator”,’ Terri reads from the juicer’s packaging while clutching a mug of builder’s brew. ‘I’ve met a few of those in my time.’
Amanda laughs dryly and busies herself by unpacking the appliance.
She seems a little unsettled whenever Terri drops by, Celia has noticed.
As if her self-appointed role as Matron is under threat – even more so, possibly, as Terri is an actual nurse.
‘So, what’re your plans, Amanda?’ Terri asks pleasantly.
‘Plans?’ Amanda raises a brow.
‘Are you up here for long?’
‘Oh, I’m kind of playing it by ear right now.’ Amanda’s smile frosts a little.
Terri nods, and Celia senses the air crackling with tension as Amanda swiftly fits the juicer components together and then loads it with chopped apples, berries and a handful of spinach.
‘How’s my boy doing?’ Terri asks, turning to Celia.
Amanda glances up in surprise, as if she’d forgotten that Logan is, in fact, still here.
She has given up on offering him food, as he has politely declined her offerings every time.
Fair enough, Celia feels. Perhaps, while everything’s still pretty raw, it’s better to let him fend for himself instead of fussing around him.
However, as the days have gone by, her concern has intensified and she’s at a loss as to how to reach him.
‘Not too good really,’ Celia replies, dropping her voice.
‘Still hiding away in his room?’
Celia nods. ‘I don’t know what to do, Terri. It’s so unlike him, you know?’
Terri exhales. ‘He’s probably just trying to make sense of things, hon.’ A quick glance at Amanda. ‘And I reckon he just needs a bit of space.’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘I’ll go talk to him,’ she announces, and Amanda looks startled as if Terri were about to venture into a bear’s cave. ‘It’s okay.’ She chuckles. ‘I don’t think he bites.’
However, when she returns, it’s clear that Terri hasn’t made much headway either, and Celia is almost relieved when she leaves and the tense atmosphere eases.
As the days go on, Terri drops by in between shifts, and tries again to coax Logan from his lair.
Yet it’s Amanda who’s the constant presence, seemingly with no other obligations right now other than taking care of Celia.
The juicer whirrs frequently, as if a steady stream of green liquids will make everything all right.
‘You have to look after yourself,’ Amanda insists.
Celia complies, although it’s so unusual to her, to be looked after like this, that she doesn’t quite know what to make of it.
It’s how she imagines staying in an exclusive private hospital and she starts to wonder how it’ll feel when Amanda goes home and it’s just her and Logan again.
She is only too aware of the huge, steaming pile of difficult decisions to be made and issues to sort, awaiting her just around the corner.
What to do about Geoff and how to unpick her life of twenty-four years.
How to reconnect with her son somehow and, in a smaller – but still daunting – way, how to break the news to her mum, who adores Geoff.
Has a shrine to him, actually. A huge photograph of him accepting some pastry manufacturer’s award, displayed in a cheap gilt frame on the sideboard next to a picture of their wedding – not the best photo of the day.
Logan isn’t in the picture and Celia is a little blurry and close to the edge.
It’s Geoff who’s smiling broadly, taking centre stage.
She is surprised her mother didn’t crop her out of it before framing that one.
So yes, there is a vast mound of stuff awaiting her attention: emotional, legal, financial.
However, while Amanda is here, making decisions for her, Celia is not having to deal with any of that.
She is not to contact Geoff yet, her friend has decreed.
She must put her own needs first. Fine, she needs to keep her houseplant business going, interacting with customers and tending the plants; Amanda understands that this is good for her.
It’s therapeutic . But she did insist that Celia call Ruth at the boutique to explain that she would need a little time off.
‘She can manage without you,’ Amanda said firmly. ‘If she really needs someone, then I’ll do it.’
‘You can’t work in a shop!’
‘Why not? You do.’
‘Yes but you’re you ,’ Celia insisted.
‘So what?’
‘You’re a TV presenter.’
‘Allegedly,’ Amanda said with a shrug, and swiftly changed the subject. In fact, Celia has pondered over Amanda’s Look for a Lifestyle contract coming to an end, but maybe that’s how things go in the TV world? She doesn’t seem at all worried.
Then on Thursday morning, when her houseguest is out on a bakery run, Celia taps on Logan’s bedroom door.
Having recoiled at the sight of the cheap sliced white loaf in the bread bin, Amanda has taken to popping out for sourdough and little glass pots of the creamiest yoghurt Celia has ever encountered.
It feels almost wasteful to eat the stuff.
Celia wants to slather it all over her face.
‘Logan?’ she calls out, as she’s been doing several times daily. ‘All okay in there?’
His response is indistinct, and the sudden rush of exasperation hits her by surprise. Why is he hiding away from her? It’s making things far worse because now, on top of Geoff’s copious lies, her son seems to have turned, if not against her, then away from her certainly. It hurts so much.
She pushes the door fully open to see him engrossed in some kind of ragged textbook, propped up by pillows on his bed. ‘Hi, love,’ she starts.
Logan glances up. ‘Hi.’ He looks different, Celia thinks.
Shifty, almost, in that he won’t meet her gaze.
He was always an amiable boy – with her at least, they were always a pair – although she was aware that he wasn’t like the other kids in his class.
Terri reassured Celia that this was a good thing; that Logan was unique and wonderful and who cared if he wasn’t into football like the other lads?
Glasgow is fervently football-focussed, and Geoff had insisted on taking him to a game once.
‘He just wanted to read,’ he announced on their return.
‘He brought a book with him.’ He never took him again.
Then as Logan progressed through his teens, Terri would insist frequently that Celia had a genius for a son.
‘How many people can say that?’ Of course Celia accepts that Logan is Logan and she loves every hair on his head.
She accepts that he has never wanted to discuss whether he is seeing anyone; if there’s a special person in his life (girl or boy, she wouldn’t care; she just worries about him being lonely).
But now she is desperate to reach him and she can sense him shutting her out.
She perches on the chair at his wonky little desk.
He’d left home several times but then came sloping back when courses didn’t work out.
‘When is he ever going to get his act together?’ Geoff complained.
Celia found herself defending his choices because wasn’t it important to find something he really loved?
She wanted everything for Logan that she hadn’t had.
‘Some of us just have to graft,’ Geoff remarked – the ‘like I do’ remaining unsaid.
The implication being that Logan regarded himself as being ‘too good’ for toiling away in a pastry goods production facility.
‘What is it, Mum?’ He sets down his book and fixes her with a stare, as if trying to propel her out of his room with the force of his gaze alone.
‘I’d just like us to talk,’ Celia starts. ‘So much has happened, and with Amanda here it’s hard for us to get the chance to?—’
‘Yeah, just a bit,’ he cuts in.
She frowns. ‘You want me to ask her to leave? I will, you know, if it’ll help.’
‘No, it’s all right,’ he says blithely.
‘Logan, listen. Let’s be honest with each other. Is this why you’re hiding away in here? I know she can be a bit full on but she’s kind, she’s trying to help?—’
‘I’m fine,’ he snaps. She exhales loudly and leaves the room, exasperated and feeling helpless.
Of course he isn’t ‘fine’ – he may never be again – but what can Celia do?
Soon, of course, Amanda will leave and it’ll just be the two of them.
And then, come September, Logan will be back off to uni and she’ll be truly alone.
Home from the bakery, Amanda sets out the breakfast table and Celia crunches into a slice of toast. My God, it’s good.
Could this be her life now? Eating toast made from bread that doesn’t come in a waxed wrapper?
It seems like a small win, all things considered.
But she is trying to focus on the here and now, and what needs to be done, and park the bigger, scarier stuff for later.
That afternoon, when she would have been leaving the shop, she cycles to her mother’s as if everything is normal and she was never confronted by the sight of her Geoff’s hairy arse in a caravan.
She watches TV through the fug of her mum’s cigarette smoke and she comes home to Amanda’s big smiles and Logan’s firmly shut bedroom door.
Having pulled off her clothes, she wraps herself in her dressing gown and stuffs them into the wash.
Then she sluices off the smoke from her body and hair using a luxury shower gel, lightly scented with almonds and Madagascan vanilla, which Amanda bought.
The cheap lemon stuff has disappeared. ‘Christ, Celia, did you actually want thrush?’ Celia had laughed and admitted that, no, it wasn’t on her wish list especially.
She has tried to force money on her friend for these distinctly non-Geoff items that keep appearing in the flat, but Amanda won’t hear of it.
Meanwhile Celia is continuing to tend to the numerous houseplants currently in her care, and when Friday arrives – almost a week since Caravan Day – Amanda decides it’s time.
Time for Celia to break it to her mother because this pretence is ridiculous, she says.
‘By keeping it secret, it’s as if you’re ashamed or feel guilty or something. Like it’s your fault.’
‘I’m not ashamed,’ Celia protests, but perhaps she is a little, for not spotting the signs.
Amanda hands her a chilled glass of wine. ‘Go over and tell your mum what’s happened. Do it tomorrow, Celia. Get it all out there in the open.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Celia shakes her head.
‘But you have to,’ Amanda retorts. ‘Remember when we were young? What we always said then?’
Celia looks at her. ‘About what?’
‘That game we had! Whenever one of us thought of something fun to do, the other had to say yes. We made a pact, remember?’
‘Oh, yes. Of course I remember.’ Celia pictures the days of dressing up and performing, of garden picnics and nights spent dancing upstairs, one floor above all those parties.
That precious time before the thing happened that changed everything, and a shy Geoff Bloom appeared at the door with a bunch of carnations.
‘So in the spirit of the yes game,’ Amanda continues, blue eyes glinting, ‘I propose that you go round first thing in the morning?—’
‘To Mum’s? But she doesn’t do mornings.’ Celia shudders at the thought.
‘Lunchtime, then. Whenever.’
‘The pact was supposed to be about fun things,’ Celia reminds her.
‘Yes, and when the hard bit’s done, we’re going straight to the movies and we’re having cocktails afterwards?—’
‘Cocktails in the day ?’ Perhaps this is what Amanda’s London life is like all the time, with her handsome young husband and zillions of friends and thrilling job opportunities.
‘Yes, why not?’ Amanda beams at her. ‘You can do these things now. You can do whatever the heck you like. And we made a pact, remember?’
‘Yes, we did.’ Celia forces a smile. ‘But that was a very long time ago.’
Amanda laughs and flaps a hand, dismissing her reticence. ‘There’s no expiry date on a pact, Celia. It’s for life.’