I need. ‘Oh – that’s very kind, but don’t worry. I’m better off on my own.’ This is probably true. I’m on my own, for the first time in years. ‘I need some time by myself.’
‘Have you told your mother, or Jay, or anyone?’
‘No, actual y,’ I say. ‘Er – you’re the first person. Sorry, I didn’t mean it to be that way. I was real y just ringing to find out how Arvind is and – I don’t want to bother you with it al .’
‘It’s not a bother,’ she says. ‘Darling, it’s no bother at al . You poor thing.’ I have to remind myself that Louisa’s not a fusser, though she so often acts like one. I wish again that I’d known her when she was eighteen, before she became this person who does things for other people al the time, when she was the pretty girl in Cecily’s diary with a new lipstick and a scholarship to Cambridge, dreadful y ambitious and clever. And it occurs to me now that I’ve never heard her mention Cambridge or university or anything like that. Did she not go in the end? Where did she go, that girl?
She’s always pretended she loved her Tunbridge Wel s life. What if she didn’t? What if that wasn’t the life she’d expected for herself?
‘Look,’ she says, breaking into my thoughts. ‘Your grand-father’s just about to go to sleep, and he’s going into the home on Monday. I want him as rested as possible before then, it’s going to be strange at first, I’m sure.’
‘It is,’ I say. ‘I mean, I’d love to stay down here longer, but you know, I can’t. I’ve been here for two weeks, and he can’t stay here on his own, it is for the best,’ Louisa says, al in a rush. ‘Frank needs me back at home, too, I don’t like being away from him for too long either.’
I can’t believe she feels guilty about it. ‘Louisa, you’ve been amazing,’ I say, and it’s true. ‘Please! What are you talking about?’
‘Not everyone feels that way,’ she says. ‘I’ve been accused of – wel , it doesn’t matter.’
‘Do you mean Mum?’ I say reluctantly, though this could easily apply to me, too.
‘I’m afraid I do,’ Louisa’s voice hardens. I wish I’d never asked. ‘I suppose there’s no need to keep up a pretence at civility, now your grandmother’s dead. She’s made that quite clear, anyway.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she doesn’t mean it,’ I say desperately. ‘She’s very grateful, I’m sure.’
‘Natasha –’ she starts. ‘Your mother—’
‘Yes?’ I say.
‘Wel . . . she’s a complicated person. OK?’
‘I know that,’ I say careful y. ‘She always has been.’
‘Yes, but—’ She stops. ‘Never mind. There’s no point.’ Tel Octavia that, I want to say. I know what you’re getting at. It’s too late.
‘Wel ,
‘It’s my pleasure,’ Louisa says simply. ‘I’d have done anything for Franty. She knew that. I loved her very much.’
After I’ve said goodbye to Louisa I feel reassured somehow. At the very least, Arvind is al right. My mother is unpredictable, and I never know how she’s going to react to certain situations. It’s true, often those situations were connected with Summercove or the people there. When we were going, when we were leaving, who was going to be there, how long she’d stay. It’s only now I remember that I said I’d go round for supper with her next week. I don’t quite know what I’l say to her when I see her. About anything, real y.
I make some tea, and I get into bed. It’s cold. I hug the same cushion against me for warmth and comfort, and I take out a pen and write a list.
Fatigue gives me a curious focus and it’s easy to write these things down. Closing my eyes briefly, I think about what else I need to sort out. I write:
But I don’t real y know what to do about those two. I put the list by my table, so it’s the first thing I see in the morning, and turn off the light. I sleep. I sleep for ten long hours, a heavy, velvety sleep, where nothing and no one troubles me, no dreams come to me, and when I wake up the next day and blearily blink at the dark room, I realise how tired I’d been. I feel new, different. I pul back the curtains, it’s another grey day in London. But it’s not so bad, maybe.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It has been such a long winter, it’s sometimes felt as though it’d never end, but final y spring seems to be arriving. That cutting chil in the air that turns your hands red and numb and stings your face has gone, and though it’s stil cold there is something in the air, a sense of something new.
It’s a cliche, therefore, to talk about new beginnings, especial y as they don’t feel very new, but by the time a couple of weeks have passed and March is wel under way, things are already different. Outwardly, nothing much has changed: I am stil alone in the flat, not real y sure what comes next. But there’s a difference this time. I keep making lists, and it helps. I’ve realised I have to keep myself busy, not just for my sanity, but for my business. As wel as checking the post obsessively – no more ignoring letters from the bank – I have a filing system at the studio, where I careful y document every last piece of expenditure, and I like it; I feel virtuous, glad to be in control of this, at the very least.
