huge row – at the reception – and she stormed off. Jay says he heard she ended up at the Rock Garden in Covent Garden with one of her bridesmaids, snogging a Russian guy. I don’t believe him, though I’d love it to be true.
Al I real y remember about that night is that Oli and my mother got real y drunk; they’re a bad combination, those two. Oli managed to offend one of Julius’s ghastly City friends: unintentional y, he can be a bit ful on when he’s had too much to drink. I had to take him home. Julius’s wife isn’t here today. Neither’s my husband, though.
‘Ah,’ Louisa says. I turn around. ‘Hi, Guy,’ I say, holding out my hand. Again I hear Julius’s words on the train.
‘It’s nice to see you again, Natasha. It’s been a very long time.’ He nods, his grey eyes kind.
‘Hi,’ I say. I haven’t seen him for ages. ‘I was in a shop where they were sel ing your bracelets the other day,’ he says. ‘Nearly bought one for my daughter.’
‘I wish you had,’ I say. He stares at me. ‘Guy’s an antiques dealer,’ Louisa says behind me. She crumples a tea towel up in her hand. ‘We thought it’d be useful for him to come to the funeral, you know? Get started on the work ahead. Because of course, there’s some interesting things in the house too.’
Interesting. ‘Has anyone been into her studio yet?’ I say. ‘It’s locked, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Louisa says, her face tight. ‘Your mother found the key and went in, a couple of days ago. She started taking things out, but I managed to stop her. Someone should be making sure it’s al properly done.’
‘Arvind wanted to go in,’ the Bowler Hat says. ‘In fairness to Miranda.’
‘Wel , fine,’ Louisa says crossly, but she doesn’t seem convinced. ‘Anyway, it’s al in there.’
‘Like what?’
Louisa is brisk. ‘A few paintings, which is wonderful. That’s it though. And her old sketchbooks and paints. Why, what were you expecting them to find?’
I shake my head, feeling stupid. ‘It’s time we sorted everything out.’ Louisa narrows her eyes. ‘Is that Florian leaving? Yes.’ She turns to me. ‘I mean, they weren’t wealthy in other ways, not for years now. But there are a lot of valuable paintings, letters, books, that sort of thing. And we need to decide what’s best for them al . For al her work, and everything else they’ve got here.’
I know about the signed first editions by Stephen Spender, Kingsley Amis, T. S. Eliot, which line the shelves rising from the floor to the ceiling either side of the fireplace. About the Ben Nicholson print in the hal , the Macready sketch with its white frame in the dining room: ‘Frances at the Chelsea Arts Club, 1953’. They lent that one for his retrospective at the Tate, a couple of years ago. It was the cover of the catalogue. I hadn’t thought about al of that. To me, they’re a part of the house, as much a part as the doors and the taps and the floors.
It makes sense that there’s some kind of trust to look after Granny’s paintings, but I can’t help feeling uncomfortable. I barely know Guy and I don’t think Mum and Archie do, either. Sure, they al spent a summer together years ago but that doesn’t real y count. Does it? And I wish I didn’t, but I object to the idea of him eyeing up these things in the house at the funeral. Poking around in Granny’s studio. Picking up the pair of Juno vases on the mantelpiece, the Clarice Cliff teapot, and clicking his tongue with pleasure. I glare at Louisa, but she is oblivious, and so I glare at Guy instead. He smiles at me in a friendly way, and I want to hit him. Now is not the time to be picking over the house for the juiciest bits, like the carcass of a chicken.
‘Where’s your mother gone?’ he asks. ‘I haven’t seen her for – gosh, ages. It’d be good to catch up with her about al of this.’ He pauses. ‘And Archie too.’
‘They were there—’ I look round for them but they’ve disappeared. Instead I see Jay in the corner, now talking to Julius. ‘They’re probably in the kitchen. Excuse me,’ I say. ‘Good to see you again.’
‘Oh,’ Guy says, obviously surprised at my abruptness. ‘Right, see you soon then.’
I reach Julius and Jay, who are standing against the wal , clutching their glasses, not real y saying much.
‘How you feeling?’ Jay asks me. ‘Fine, fine,’ I wave him away. ‘Hi, Julius.’
‘Er—’ Julius scratches his face. He is looking bored. ‘Sorry about you and – er – Oli.’ I don’t know if he’s shy or if he genuinely can’t remember his name. ‘So – what happened? He slept with someone else?’
‘How did you know that?’ I say.
Julius shrugs. ‘Good guess. That’s usual y why, isn’t it?’ Jay, standing next to him, rol s his eyes. Julius is our relative, it’s weird to think of it. He is kind of vile.
‘Yes, he slept with someone else,’ I say. ‘But—’
But what? Exactly. I look over at my mother and bite my lip. I stil haven’t even talked to her about this, and it feels wrong. Not because I usual y tel her everything, in fact, I usual y tel her nothing, but she’s my mum. I should talk to her first.
‘Anyway.’ I change the subject. ‘I was just talking to your uncle. Do you think it’s appropriate he’s here?’
‘Why shouldn’t he be here?’ Julius says, unperturbed by my question. ‘He was her nephew, you know. He flew al the way from San Diego for the bloody funeral, damn nice of him, considering.’
‘Not your uncle Jeremy,’ I say, annoyed. Julius flusters me. ‘Your other uncle. Guy. Your mother’s brought him down here to – to basical y do a valuation on al the stuff in the house. Just think it’s a bit rich.’
Julius doesn’t even blink. ‘You’ve got to pay for the nursing home your grandfather’s going into,’ he says.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘That’s rubbish. There’s – there’s money. Mum and Archie can sort it out.’
‘With what?’ Julius says. ‘With al the money each of them has floating around?’ Jay stiffens and I frown. ‘There’s nothing, they’ve spent it al ,’
Julius says flatly. He sticks his thick, rubbery lips out, like a child, and like a child I hate him again. I am sharply reminded of how he would push me against the rocks down on the beach, and laugh, and my back would be grazed with a repeating rash of brown beady scabs, for the duration of our holidays together. In truth I didn’t real y know
