There was another long silence, but not a good one. Eventually, Poppy burst out, ‘I hope you haven’t been too nice to Dad. Have you? Richard says it’s only sensible he gets the house, but I can’t see it like that.’
‘I wasn’t pushed into it, if that’s what you mean.’ I passed Poppy some tissue paper. ‘Could you wrap the decanter?’
She muttered, ‘What about
Aha. That was the crux of the matter, and I had to tiptoe across crushed glass. ‘The textbook doesn’t always apply’
‘Rubbish. That’s an excuse.’
I abandoned the third wineglass and seized Poppy by the shoulders. ‘It’s true. You can wait years in the queue, patiently shuffling towards the top, then someone overtakes you and administers a hefty kick on the way. You’re happily married, and then you’re not, and you imagine you’re going to die from humiliation and pain.’ Under my fingers, Poppy’s shoulders felt defenceless. ‘But you don’t, not in the obvious way. What’s more, you can get your own back – but not in the obvious way. You get your own back by believing that, yes, despite everything you can live as well, perhaps better. Differently, anyway.’
Poppy shrugged me off. ‘Oh, yes?’
Here the seven-year brain-cycle theory would have come in handy, but Poppy was in no mood for evolutionary science. ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that pride is too heavy to carry around. And destructive,’ I said – lightly, but I meant it. Poppy’s mouth tightened. ‘Poppy darling, are you blaming me for what’s happened?’
At that she turned on me, a goaded, troubled Fury. ‘You didn’t fight hard enough to keep Dad.
She glowed with outrage and I caught a glimpse of the Rose of twenty-five years ago, who had searched for order and security amongst the mess and muddle. Conventional wisdom said that youth was adventurous. I wonder. In no way had I been
With one of her more dramatic gestures – and she possessed an excellent repertoire – Poppy slipped to her knees. ‘Mum,
I leant over and cupped her wet face in my hands. My own was wet with tears, too, but I was laughing at her fierceness and indignation, which was unfair. Her skin felt as smooth as that of the tiny baby I had once held so closely. ‘Shush,’ I said. ‘Shush, Poppy.’
As promised Kim Boyle contacted me. ‘Right, my girl, this is the best I can do. Not a full-time job but part-time, to do serial. Will the finances permit? Can I have you next week?’
At six thirty on 21 January, the alarm shrilled. I got dressed in a black felt skirt, a red jumper and a pair of heels as high as I could manage, given that I was going to wear them all day. For breakfast I ate raw porridge oats with a banana, and drank two cups of strong black coffee.
With a lightish heart, I retrieved my book bag from its peg and left the house. The overgrown bay tree brushed wet fingers across my back as I passed, and I was in the office by nine twenty.
Kim arrived at half past ten. His assistant, Deirdre, had already installed me at a desk and issued me with security and canteen cards. These slotted back with no trouble into the worn niche in my wallet.
‘Good.’ Kim ran an eye over the bright-eyed bushy-tailed me. ‘We’ll do nicely. I believe in sauce for the feminist goose and her gander, and since I want to see the children in the mornings, you will come in early and I will stay late.’
The office was smaller and less architecturally evolved than that of the Vistemax Group, which meant it was nicer to work in. Its smaller size was, however, indicative of the
‘Here…’ Kim tossed me a volume on Handel and a top-secret ghost-written biography of a female pop-star. ‘See what you make of them.’
Proust may have had his madeleine, whose taste and scent goaded him into writing his masterpiece of past loves and hates, despairs and longing. My madeleine was more prosaic, less delicately sensuous, but, as surely, as powerfully, the fonts, spines and promise of books pulled me back.
Handel was an interesting man, but the apparent lack of women in his life shocked his biographer. Even so, the female characters in his operas were invariably arresting for he gave them great buffeting passions and the gift of emotional authenticity. Not that the paper would be in the least interested in
‘Hmm,’ said Kim, at the end of the day ‘Not sure about Handel.’
‘I didn’t think you would be, so I’ve concentrated on the other.’
‘You’ve got the idea quickly’ I resisted the temptation to say, ‘Of course I’ve got the idea.’ He leafed through my suggestions and jabbed his pen here and there on the pages – the role I used to have. But I didn’t mind. ‘How does it feel to be back in an office?’
‘Bit like pulling on an old but favourite jumper.’
Kim shoved the work back at me. ‘A bit of tinkering’s needed, nothing major, and we’ll go for it. I’ll let you know the budget.’ He gathered up his agenda and headed off to a meeting.
I settled down in the office. By the end of the second week Deirdre and I were well on the way to being friends. I had ascertained that she wore a lot of scent, and kept two pairs of shiny high heels in different colours in her desk. She also had a nose for what would work.
‘What about this?’ I explained that a diet had come in which argued that individuals should eat according to their blood type. You were allowed either proteins or carbohydrates, and only the lucky AB groups ended up with anything approaching normal meals.
‘Do you mean to say that the fact that my hips are two sizes too big has nothing to do with the million chocolate bars I’ve eaten but is down to my blood group?’ She leant over my desk. ‘Dynamite, Rose. If my blood group’s to blame it leaves me free to stuff myself with chocolate.
Poppy and I finally managed to pack boxes, lock cases and stuff clothes into bags, and a van took them all away. One day Poppy and Richard had filled the house, the next they had gone, leaving behind a snowfall of tissues, discarded labels and dust.
The following day I telephoned estate agents, all of whom promised to send details of the ‘opportunities’ currently on their lists. Sam came up to London and insisted on going through them with me. It took him two minutes to spot the sensible ‘opportunity’ in Clapham. ‘That one,’ he said.
We went to view it on Poppy’s birthday and were discussing its pros and cons as we arrived at the Kensington flat for a celebration supper. Looking exceptionally smart in a tailored grey suit and gold jewellery, Alice joined us. She offered Sam a cheek to kiss and kept a hand possessively on his arm as she turned to me. ‘Rose, you’re looking better.’
Poppy was in one of her floaty muslin numbers, to which she had added a mass of beads. I kissed her but she was preoccupied and, as soon we had settled in the sitting room, disappeared into the kitchen.
Sam and I batted flat talk between each other. ‘I don’t trust you to be sensible,’ he was saying, as Richard, who had been giving Alice a guided tour of the flat, ushered her back into the room.
‘I don’t believe Rose is ever not sensible,’ Richard said, but his expression suggested that he believed exactly the opposite. He was dressed in corduroy trousers, which strained a little too tightly across the buttocks, and Sam and I exchanged undercover grins. The new Richard still required getting used to.
‘Does Poppy need any help?’
Richard looked a trifle grim. ‘Poppy and cooking are combustible. I’d better go and check.’
Sam inspected the large, elegant room, which housed a pair of American colonial gilt chairs, a French provincial mirror with the original glass, and an exquisitely inlaid half-moon side-table. ‘Hell,’ he muttered. ‘I thought they were into grass skirts, flowers in the hair and that sort of stuff.’
‘It’s lovely’ Alice fiddled with her bracelet, a heavy gold chain. Her eyes grazed the room hungrily. ‘Richard’s parents must have been very generous.’
‘None of your business.’ Sam was uncharacteristically sharp. I was startled and, if I was not mistaken, so was Alice.
