‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘Louisa, it’s – it’s Natasha. Hel o.’
The voice softens a little. ‘Natasha! How are you, darling?’ Her voice is comforting, it makes you feel safe. For a second, I wonder if I’m just being stupid. I take a deep breath, feeling light-headed from the wine.
‘I’m OK. OK. I was just ringing to see how Arvind is doing. Is he there?’
‘He’s here, but he’s pretty tired – we were about to go to bed.’ Apparently Louisa does not think this sentence sounds weird. She says loudly,
‘Weren’t we.’
I smile to myself. ‘Fine, I’m sorry. I know it’s a bit late to be cal ing. I only wanted to say hi. How’s – how’s it al going?’
‘OK, you know,’ Louisa says. ‘Oh, yes. We got a lot done yesterday, and today, we’re real y clearing a lot out, and the solicitors have been very efficient too, you know, it’s al going pretty smoothly.’ She clears her throat; she sounds tired. ‘It’s so sad, though.’
I feel a stab of guilt. ‘Why don’t I come down and help you? I feel awful I had to skip off on Wednesday.’
‘Oh, no, it’s absolutely fine, darling,’ Louisa says. ‘To be honest, Natasha, it’s actual y easier to just get on with it by myself.’ She pauses. ‘I mean, of course, your mother’s done a lot, so has Archie, but the nitty gritty – you know, I’m an old busybody! I rather like sorting it al out.’ She’s trying to sound light-hearted but I can hear that note in her voice again, and I’m not sure I believe her.
I wish I could go back and search through the house for the rest of the diary. But even my befuddled, tired brain knows it would look highly suspicious if I turned up again, so soon after leaving abruptly, to go through Granny’s things. And that’s not how I want to see Arvind again anyway, or the house. I feel like a criminal. So I say, trying to keep my voice casual, ‘Have you found anything interesting?’
‘Like what?’ she asks. ‘It’s al being properly catalogued, Natasha. There are a lot of items that need to be valued, and Guy’s coming down soon to do it . . .’
‘No, I don’t mean it like that—’
‘With a sinking feeling, I wonder what Mum’s been saying to her. ‘Just interesting things about the family, you know. Photos and al that.’
‘Oh.’ Louisa unbends a little. ‘Wel , there are a couple of things. Let me think. Oh – yes! I’ve found some old clothes of Miranda’s. Al just bundled up in a cupboard.’
I sit down on the sofa, hugging a cushion against my body. ‘How do you know they’re Miranda’s? I mean, Mum’s?’
‘Wel , I remember she bought them with the money her godmother sent her. She’d never real y been a clothes horse before, and suddenly she started turning up for dinner in these absolutely amazing dresses and things. And they’re al there, just stuffed into a bag and hidden in the back of a cupboard. I’d forgotten al about them! And there’s an hilari ous picture of Julius and Octavia I found in a kitchen drawer, when they were children down on the beach, covered in sand and wearing buckets on their heads. Ever so funny.’ Louisa laughs heartily, and leaves a pause for me to laugh heartily too which I do, even though my heart is beating so fast it’s painful.
‘Oh, that’s funny,’ I say unconvincingly. ‘Anything else?’
‘No,’ says Louisa. ‘Franty, your grandmother, she was a very organised woman. There’s hardly anything left, real y. I think she got rid of a lot . . .
a lot of things.’
I think back to my room at Summercove, which used to be my mother’s and Cecily’s, and know Louisa is right. When I think about it, it is rather odd. There is nothing in the wardrobe now – I know it by heart – apart from an old backgammon set, some old books, and a moth-eaten fur that Granny never wore. Certainly no diary. And yet somehow this makes me even more convinced she must have kept the rest of it somewhere. Out of sight. I take a deep breath.
‘What about the studio? I went in, just before I left.’
‘Wel , it is strange, having it open again, being able to go in,’ Louisa says. ‘I was never al owed to before. But no,’ she says, ‘nothing there real y either. So, you’re OK then?’ She changes the subject. ‘Al al right? I was worried about you, Natasha dear.’
When I was thirteen, I was running back towards the house from the beach and my newly long legs betrayed me, and I fel over, dislocating my shoulder in the process. The pain was excruciating, but Louisa took me to the hospital as I wailed and screamed loudly, al pretence at maturity abandoned. She waited with me for a doctor for what seemed like hours, and fed me sweets and read out extracts from her new Jil y Cooper novel to keep me entertained. I’m sure she’s forgotten it, but I never have. I don’t want her to worry about me, but it’s comforting to know she cares. Like I say, she is a comforting person, and I feel real y guilty about how mean I’ve been about her, these last few days.
‘Actual y – Oli and I have split up. Permanently,’ I say. ‘You and Oli? What?’ Louisa makes a querying sound at the back of her throat, as if she doesn’t understand. ‘When?’
‘Earlier today.’ It seems longer ago than that, this morning. Like a morning from a week ago, a year ago.
‘Oh, Natasha,’ Louisa says, her voice sad. ‘Oh, that’s awful.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Real y, it is. I mean, it’s not, but – you know.’
‘My dear. Where are you, at home?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘On your own?’
‘Yes,’ I say again. ‘That’s not very good. Do you want – should I get Octavia to come round? Keep you company? She’s only in Marylebone, you know.’
Yes, I want to say. Do send Octavia round. Her cheery face and happy modes of passing the time are just what
