Love Always

‘No probs,’ he says equably, sticking a piece of toast in his mouth. He reaches out and pats my shoulder. ‘Hey. You’re not cold-hearted. You’re lovely. Remember that. Keep your chin up, Nat.’ His voice is muffled as he closes the door, almost abruptly, and I’m left standing in the corridor. On the front of the door is written, in black marker pen:

Ben Cohen

Photographer & Male Escort

I’ve never noticed this before and it makes me smile. I’m stil smiling as I walk back into the studio. Mum is looking at my drawing pad, the sketch of the ring and the necklace; she jumps guiltily.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You gave me a fright.’

‘Sorry,’ I say. I fil the kettle up and then I take a deep breath and turn to face her. The unexpectedness of this encounter makes me bold. I haven’t had time to worry about it. ‘So where have you been? I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Mum runs one hand careful y through her hair. ‘Look, I’m sorry. It’s been hard for me.’

‘You should have cal ed me.’

She smiles, almost sweetly. ‘Darling, you don’t understand.’

‘I don’t?’ I say, looking at her.

‘No, you don’t. Sorry, Natasha.’

‘Try me,’ I say, opening my arms wide. ‘You’ve lost your mother, I’ve lost my grandmother. My marriage is ended. You’re my mum. Why can’t you talk to me? And why can’t I talk to you? I’m not saying I’m a great daughter, but . . . where’ve you been?’

‘Because . . .’ She shakes her head, scrunching up her face.

‘Oh, you don’t understand. You don’t! I know you think I’m a terrible mother, but –’ her voice is rising into a whine – ‘you don’t understand!’

A kind of despair tugs at me – this is my mother, my mother. ‘Octavia said you were the last person anyone would ask for help,’ I say icily. ‘She was right, wasn’t she?’

‘Octavia? We’re listening to what Octavia says now, are we? Right.’ Mum’s eyes dart around the room, undermining the bul ish tone in which she says this. ‘Funny, darling, I thought you and I were in rare agreement about Octavia. She’s the last person I’d ask for help.’

This is going wrong, al wrong. ‘She just said it, that’s al . I’m not saying I like her, it’s—’

Mum interrupts. ‘Listen, Natasha. She’s her mother’s daughter. And her father’s. Hah. I don’t care for their opinions, to be honest. Neither should you.’

I’m standing behind the counter. She is facing me. ‘Octavia said something else, too,’ I say, nodding as if to wil myself along, and her eyes meet my gaze. ‘Octavia said . . .’ My voice breaks. ‘Mum, she said you pushed Cecily that day. You pushed her down the steps.’

My mother’s eyes widen a little, and she says, with a catch in her throat, ‘OK, OK.’

She paces around, two steps forward, turns, two steps back. I watch her. ‘You think I kil ed her,’ she says. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

‘They al think –’ I begin, but she interrupts me again. ‘Not them.’ She holds up her hand. ‘Not them, Natasha. You. Answer me. Is that what you’re saying?’

I wipe my hands on my jeans. It is so quiet. Downstairs, a door slams. She is looking right into my eyes.

When it comes, the word slides out of my mouth quietly. ‘Yes,’ I say, not looking at her. ‘That’s what I’m saying.’

* * *

My mother doesn’t react immediately. We face each other in the cold, darkening room. ‘Wel , that’s very interesting,’ she replies. ‘Very interesting. I guess I always knew this moment would come.’

She says it lightly, as if it’s of moderate interest, and hugs herself a little tighter, her head on one side. She looks so beautiful, but I am suddenly revolted by her cool, ravishing beauty, her cunning hooded eyes, her total lack of trustworthiness, and I remember how good an actress she real y is, has always been.

‘You knew this moment would come?’ I say. I back up, stand against the wal , my hands on the cool white plaster.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘When you final y went over to their side.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Nearly a month since Mummy died, and you’ve done it. I knew it.’

‘I’m not on anyone’s “side”.’ I swal ow. ‘It’s just they say that—’

‘“They”?’ my mother says, smiling. ‘Who are “they”, please?’

‘Wel –’ I stutter. ‘Octavia and – Louisa, and – the rest of them.’

She nods. ‘Exactly.’ Her eyes flash a little as she sees my expression. ‘That’s very nice. And my own daughter believes them.’ She leans back on the counter. ‘Louisa has no evidence, you know. This is a land grab, don’t you see that?’ She raises her eyebrows so they disappear into her tinted fringe. ‘They’re al trying to ruin me, to make themselves feel better, now Mummy’s gone.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t think Louisa’s trying to – to do anything, Mum. She just said—’

Mum’s face is flushed. ‘Oh, if you knew what I know . . .’ She stops. She is almost laughing; her mouth opens without sound. Then she says,

‘What I’ve put up with, since I was a little girl, from al of them. You don’t know what it was like.’