‘Well, I’m not going to need it.’
‘Staying in London then?’
‘Of course.’
He bites into the bourbon and pulls a face, probably because he’s never understood why I went to live in the capital. As far as he’s concerned, it’s full of ne’er-do-wells.
The telephone receiver’s slammed down.
‘Oh, here she comes. Have a biscuit. You’re getting skinny.’
He thrusts the tin at me again. This time, I help myself to a malted milk and stare at it.
‘Bloody Pam,’ Mum almost spits. ‘Going on about bloody books.’
Through a mouthful of bourbon, Dad gives out a sigh.
‘She runs a reading circle, Audrey.’
‘Well, there’s no need to go on about bloody books at a time like this. We’ve got real life going on here. Oh, Maya.’ She clasps her hands to her chest. ‘You haven’t got a job. You gave up your job.’
‘I’m an artist, Mum. That’s my job.’
‘How can it be a job? What about security?’
I suppose I could tell her about the ridiculous sum of money that’s recently landed in my bank account. That’s security enough.
‘I’ve sold another picture. I’ve got enough to keep me going. I need to focus on painting. I need to take a chance.’
Mum’s face puckers.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I add quickly, before she can tell me that my painting’s never going to amount to anything. ‘I’m meeting someone. A friend.’
While Mum eyes me with more than a good dose of suspicion, I collect my handbag and make for the door.
‘I’ll see you soon.’
The rain hits me as soon as I step outside. Retreating just long enough to borrow an umbrella, I finally head off, relieved to escape my parents’ attentions.
I choose the coast route this time, emerging onto the main stretch, crossing the road and following a cliff-top path down the hill, past the crazy golf course, bowling green and ornamental gardens, towards the centre of town. When I reach the first building, I pause. Holding the umbrella in one hand and grabbing the steel railings with the other, I look out over the North Sea. It’s overwhelmingly grey beneath a darkening horizon. An endless mass of cloud rolls in, dragging the rain in its wake, but none of this seems to have dampened the spirits of the August holidaymakers. The beaches below are still busy with people sheltering from the showers beneath umbrellas, coats and beach tents. I smile at the grit of the British, determined to make the most of it, come what may.
‘Penny for them?’
Jolted out of my reverie, I turn to find Layla standing by my side.
‘They’re not worth that much.’ I’m transported back to Dan’s kitchen garden, to the softness in his blue eyes when he asked me the very same question … and I gave the very same reply. I shake the memory out of my head. I’ve got to think straight. I can’t afford to be distracted. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Not bad.’
Gripping her own umbrella, she stands fixed to the spot, clearly unsure of what to do next. It’s up to me to give a little reassurance. Stepping forward and angling my umbrella to one side, I give her a one-armed hug.
‘Shall we walk?’ I ask.
‘Why not?’
In silence, we take the slip road down to the promenade and walk southwards, past shops and arcades and cafés, all of them busy. I have no idea what Layla’s thinking about as we move on, but I’m wondering exactly how to give her my news … and I’m dreading her reaction. By the time we reach the pier, the rain has stopped, and both of us have closed our umbrellas.
‘Let’s grab a bench.’ I nod towards the Victorian hotels and flats that line the top of the cliff. ‘How about up there?’
With a nod, Layla gives her agreement. We climb a steep, winding path back up to the top of the cliffs, and find a bench overlooking the sea.
‘Prepared for everything.’ Opening her handbag, Layla pulls out a tissue and wipes the seat. ‘You don’t want a wet bum.’
‘Certainly not.’
I settle myself next to her, arranging my handbag and umbrella on the bench, and the thoughts in my head. I glance up at the sky where the clouds have parted now, albeit temporarily. And then I gaze out to sea again. Ever-changing under a restless sky, it’s mutated into an olive green-grey, streaked with strips of deep blue.
‘Oh, look at that.’ Layla points to the right, where a rainbow’s kicked into life above the cliffs. ‘Make a wish.’
I wish for this to be easy.
‘Happy families,’ she observes, turning her attention to the beach. The promise of a tiny scrap of sun has lured the crowds back out of the cafés and beach huts. Already there are children paddling, making sandcastles, kicking balls about on the sand. ‘I often wonder what goes on behind closed doors when I see people like this.’
‘That’s pretty cynical.’
‘Is it any surprise? My dad was good at putting on an act in public, but once we got home …’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t go on about him.’
‘Why not?’
We slip back into silence for a moment or two. A seagull wheels through the air in front of us, in search of a lunchtime chip.
‘There are plenty of normal, happy families out there,’ I press on, determined to be positive. ‘You’ve got one of your own now.’
She smiles. ‘Yes. But I’m determined. My kids are getting the best upbringing I can provide. All the love and care and attention. It’s the best way to undo the past: break the cycle. But I suppose it’s not always that easy.’
She’s thinking about her brother. I know
