‘Goodbye, Natasha,’ the Bowler Hat says.
He kisses my cheek and I stare at him. I don’t feel rage, just cold dislike. I want him to suffer for what he’s done but I realise there’s no point, real y. It would only hurt Louisa and that’s not what any of us wants. He’s not worth my time. Hopeful y I won’t ever have anything to do with him.
He doesn’t go near Mum. ‘Bye,’ he says, raising his hand, rather flatly, as if unsure of what comes next.
‘Ready?’ Archie says. He opens the car door for his sister, as he always does. ‘I’l be back soon, Louisa,’ he says. ‘Sort out the rest.’
‘Thanks,’ Louisa says, her voice muffled again; and it’s strange, I’ve never noticed it before, but it’s true, there’s an awkwardness between them. Whereas the Bowler Hat gets to strol around carefree, and what he did that summer was much worse, and half of them – Mum, Archie, Guy –
both my grandparents – know it. I sigh. That sums the whole crazy situation up, real y. I mean, I know Archie can be annoying, but he’s OK. He’s Jay’s dad, after al . He must have only just got back from dropping Arvind off, and here he is, driving us back to almost exactly where he’s just been.
‘Hop in, Natasha.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling a rush of gratitude towards him, and I climb into the back. As we drive off I swivel round in my seat, just as I used to when I was smal , to catch one last glimpse of the house, its white curves set against the sloping green and the sea in the background. In the front, Archie and Mum are chattering about something together, laughing, as if their spirits have been lifted already by going. I realise that, what with everything, I haven’t said goodbye to the house, goodbye to Summercove for ever.
Then it occurs to me that actual y, I have.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Just after seven the next morning, we pul in to Paddington. It is another beautiful spring day. Soft sunshine floods into the old, familiar station as Mum and I get off the train and stand awkwardly on the platform.
We look blearily at each other as the crowds recede. I swing my bag over my shoulder and she smiles at me, and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.
‘Darling Nat,’ she says. ‘My clever girl.’
We’re nodding at each other. We’ve made it. We’ve come out the other side. I feel as though I’ve been fighting my way through the darkness for a long time, the whole of the last year. Perhaps longer, when I think about it, as if my life had gone the wrong direction, with no input from me. The way Mum’s did when Cecily died.
She grips my hand with her long, smooth fingers, so tight she’s almost pinching it. She is sort of wild, her eyes are huge.
I pat her shoulder. ‘Mum,’ I say. ‘Shal we – do you want to go and get some breakfast? I know a nice place not far from here, by the canal.’
She’s nodding. ‘We could . . .
catch up and stuff.’
Mum opens her mouth, smiling at the same time. And then she says, ‘Oh! . . . Yes. I’d – Yes, wel , I’d love to, darling, but I can’t.’
‘Oh. I thought you were – never mind, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Jean-Luc rang me early this morning,’ she says, her eyes wide. ‘His wife’s left him and he’s in a terrible state. He just happens to have a booking for the River Cafe for lunch! So he’s taking me. I real y should get home and make myself presentable.’ Her smile is stil bright, optimistic, sunny and a little scary. ‘But it’s a lovely idea, darling.’ She grasps my hand again. ‘Maybe some other time, hm?’
‘Yes,’ I say, looking at her, into her clear green eyes so like her own mother’s, so like mine. ‘Some other time.’
‘Which way are you . . . ?’ She points towards the main concourse.
‘I’m—’ I point behind me, towards the Hammersmith & City line.
‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Yes, wel , I’m getting the District . . .’ We are stil pointing in different directions. ‘Wel , I’d better run,’ Mum says. She kisses me on the cheek. ‘Bye, sweetheart,’ she says, and she is dashing off down the platform, and I watch her go, and turn and climb the stairs to the Tube, the same stairs I ran down two months ago to catch this very same train, the one that would take me back to Summercove for Granny’s funeral.
I sit on the Tube as it rattles gently east, away from the station, away from Mum, towards the centre of London and another day. I don’t know when I’m going to see her again; she has made the parameters very clear, and after everything that’s happened, that she’s been through, I know it’s fine. I see Louisa hurrying off . . . Mum, hurrying off . . . I see myself saying goodbye to Arvind, packing up my marriage. And just as I think I’m alone, pretty much alone, apart from Jay, but without the rest of my family, a thought strikes me.
I cannot believe I haven’t seen it before.
I stand up abruptly in the crowded Tube. The doors are opening at King’s Cross.
Half an hour later, I am standing outside a door of a house in a pretty Georgian terrace. I knock firmly.
A girl answers. ‘Hi?’ she says, looking at me. She is mid-twenties, with long, curly, dark brown hair, a touch of red in it. She is holding a half-finished cereal bowl and a spoon.
‘Hi,’ I say, slightly out of breath, as I have run al the way from the Tube. ‘Hi. I’m Natasha. Is your – is your dad there?’
She looks me curiously up and down. And then she nods, and smiles. ‘Um – OK. Sure.
