Losing Me (20 page)

“Of course it’s all down to bloody Felicity. Get this: ‘Mrs. Felicity Monkton, together with Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Bishop, invite you’ . . . et cetera, et cetera. I mean, since when has my name been Kenneth? And I loathe that phrase ‘together with.’ It’s such appalling, clumsy English.”

Barbara agreed that the wording wasn’t ideal. “What do Adam and Emma say?”

“Oh, you know. What do they ever say? They’re good kids. They just want to keep the peace. They take the view that Felicity’s just been widowed—what’s the harm in giving her what she wants? But it’s not like she’s even paying for the wedding. Ken and I are paying. Shouldn’t we at least have a say?”

“Of course you should. But if the kids are happy . . .”

“I know. . . . I should pull back. It’s not my day; it’s theirs. I do try, but it’s so damned hard. You were so lucky with Jess and Matt’s wedding.”

Jean wasn’t wrong. Jess and Matt’s wedding had been a pretty modest affair. The bride and groom had rolled up at the registry office in an ancient VW camper. Jess wore a vintage flapper dress that had cost a couple hundred quid. After the ceremony, family and close friends gathered for a roast beef lunch at the Cat and Whistle—an old East End boozer turned gastropub. Beer was served in old-fashioned dimpled mugs with handles. Red and purple anemones were arranged in vintage china teapots. For Barbara and Frank, the organization had been minimal, the cost just about doable and the aggravation nonexistent—beyond Jess and Matt constantly fretting about the provenance of the lunch ingredients.

“I’ll be over about half past eight,” Jean said. “I’ll pick up Chinese on the way.”

•   •   •

“By the way,” Jess said as she and Matt were leaving, “Cleo is still a bit chesty at night. She’s been having these terrible coughing fits, but loads of kids have had it and all the mums say it sounds worse than it is. If you’re worried, call the homeopath. She’ll probably up the dose of Pulsatilla. Her number’s on the fridge.”

Barbara knew she shouldn’t interfere, but the words had left her mouth before she could stop them. “Darling, do you think maybe she should see the doctor? I mean, this cough has been going on for a while.”

“I agree,” Matt said. “But you try convincing your daughter.”

“But what’s the doctor going to do?” Jess said. “He’ll only give her antibiotics, and I refuse to go down that road.” She looked at Matt. “I thought we were agreed on that?”

“Usually, yes. But she’s had this cough for so long. I’m not happy. You should have let me take her to the doctor when I wanted to.”

“Matt, stop worrying. It’s just a standard chest infection. She’ll be fine.”

Barbara wasn’t about to wade in, but she couldn’t help thinking that had Ben been there, he wouldn’t have held back. He was always having a go at Jess about homeopathy. She hadn’t forgotten his most recent attack before Christmas.

“What kind of idiot believes that diluting an active medicinal ingredient until it’s nonexistent makes it more potent? It’s a massive con. The UK homeopathic market is worth more than two hundred million pounds a year. You can’t abide Big Pharma, but you support that.”

Jess went on about how it had been proven that water had memory. “When you dilute a chemical in water, it sets up a vibration and you still get the amount you need.”

“OK, so if you’re collapsed on the floor with a stroke, I’ll remember to call the homeopath while Mum feeds you Rescue Remedy.”

Jess and Ben hadn’t spoken for days after that spat.

•   •   •

“So, Grandma,” Cleo said after her parents had gone. “Do you want to see the spider we caught? It’s huge.”

“That depends. . . .”

“It’s OK,” Atticus said. “You don’t have to be frightened. He’s in a jar with the lid on.”

“Oh, well, in that case . . .”

Cleo ran to fetch the spider, coughing as she went. Barbara didn’t like the rasping sound she was hearing, but her granddaughter seemed lively enough.

Inside a Manuka honey jar was a house spider—disarmingly thick of leg and thorax.

“He’s called Cyril,” Cleo said.

“Are you sure he wouldn’t prefer to be released into the wild?”

Cleo shook her head. “No. He’s a house spider.”

“But Mum’s scared of spiders,” Atticus chimed in, “so we can’t keep him here. She says we need to rehome him.”

“You’re going to rehome a spider.”

“Yes, but we need to find a family who will feed it lots of crickets and mealworms.”

How far the world had come, Barbara thought. Back in the twenties—so family legend had it—her grandmother used to pay Big Vera ten bob to come in every few months to drown the family dog’s latest litter. A hundred years later her grandchildren were interviewing prospective carers for a house spider.

While Atticus tucked into the chicken casserole Jess had left for supper, Cleo barely touched hers. Later on Barbara read the children a few pages of
The Twits
. Cleo wanted to be cuddled and snuggled into Barbara. Once or twice she had to stop reading while Cleo had a coughing fit. She gave her water, but it didn’t seem to make much difference. Bedtime was eight o’clock, but they begged Barbara to let them watch a bit of
Britain’s Got Talent.
Atticus jumped up and down on the sofa, hooting and mocking the acts, thoroughly enjoying himself. Cleo sat on Barbara’s lap, clutching her blanky, barely able to stay awake.

“Mum and Dad never let us watch
Britain’s Got Talent
,” Atticus said as an ad break started. “Mum says it’s part of our”—he paused as he searched for the words—“globalized, trans-fat, Pop-Tart culture. What does that mean?”

“You may well ask,” Barbara said.

Cleo swallowed the tiny Pulsatilla pills and Barbara kissed her good night. “I’m only in the living room if you need me.” She went into Atticus’s room. He was next to his bed, practicing his juggling. “Look, Grandma, look.” But he hadn’t really improved since the last time she’d watched him. “Wow. You’re getting there,” she said.

“Nah. I’m rubbish. Nana Rose was right. She told me I should retire gracefully.”

“Nana told you to give up?”

“Yes. And she’s right. Why do parents always tell you you’re great at everything when you’re not?”

“They’re trying to encourage you—that’s all.”

“Well, it doesn’t work. All it means is that you can’t trust them.”

Barbara picked the juggling balls up off the floor. “I can see that,” she said. “But years ago children didn’t get much encouragement, and nowadays people try to make up for it.”

“So when you were a child, didn’t you get any encouragement from your mum and dad?”

“Not really.”

“The olden days must have been horrible.”

Barbara laughed. “They weren’t so bad. We got to eat lemonade powder and chips out of newspaper. Now, come on, you. Into bed.”

“Lemonade powder?”

“It came in a bag and it was bright yellow. You dipped your finger into the sour sugar granules and sucked it off. We loved it.”

“I bet it rotted your teeth, and food colorings are really bad for you.”

“I know. But we enjoyed it. Back then they hadn’t invented kale.”

Atticus climbed in and pulled the duvet up to his chin.

“Grandma, can you read just a few more pages of
The Twits
? Please. Please. Then I’ll go to sleep. I promise.” Barbara obliged, and twenty minutes later, much to her surprise, Atticus fell asleep.

Jean arrived with enough Chinese for six people. “I made the mistake of buying food when I was starving,” she said. “I’m afraid I made a start on the spring rolls in the car.”

They laid out the cartons on the coffee table and sat on the sofa to eat. As usual, Jean couldn’t stop admiring the flat. “I am loving the antlers. I’m sure they weren’t here when I came last time. . . . And who thinks of turning a bowler hat into a lampshade? It’s all so wonderfully boho.”

“I know. I’ve often thought that if the deli goes down the pan, they could turn to interior design.”

“Why should it go down the pan? I thought it was doing brilliantly.”

She explained about the lack of passing trade and the clients who’d gone bust owing them money.

“It’s hit them really hard. They’re struggling to make ends meet.”

“Come on,” Jean soothed. “You can’t take Jess and Matt’s money worries on board. You’ve got your own problems.”

“I know, but when you’re a mum you never stop worrying.”

“Tell me about it.”

For a few moments, they carried on eating in silence. “So,” Jean said eventually, “how are you doing apart from worrying about Jess and Matt?”

“Well, on the plus side, I haven’t had any more panic attacks. On the downside, I’m not sure I love my husband anymore.”

“You two need to talk about what’s going on,” Jean said, stabbing a sweet-and-sour pork ball with her fork. “It’s the only way forward.”

“I’ve tried talking to him, but he doesn’t get it. It’s this old thing about him thinking I’m too needy. All he says is that he does his best and if that’s not good enough . . .”

“You can walk.”

“He hasn’t said as much, but it’s what he means.”

“It’s sheer bravado. Frank loves you. He’d be bereft without you.”

“I don’t doubt it. Who else would run around after him? But at the same time, he didn’t really care about leaving me. He knew how much I needed him and he still walked away. I wouldn’t have minded if it had been for a week or so, but I’ve no idea when he’s going to be back.”

“Not his finest hour, I admit. But if your marriage means anything, the pair of you must keep talking.”

“Did you and Ken talk about how you never had sex?”

“A great deal.”

“And look where it got you.”

“It’s different with us. I’m not sure we could ever have resolved our issue. Ken is just wired differently from other men. He can’t change. Frank might.”

“You think?”

“I admit that at his age, you’re not going to turn him into the ideal husband, but don’t give up. Eventually you will get through to him.”

“I’m not so sure. And to be honest, I don’t think I’ve got the energy to keep trying.” Barbara bit into a kung pao prawn.

“I won’t be easy. You’ve been in the wars and Frank’s behaved badly. . . .”

“And not for the first time. You know as well as I do that I’ve had decades of his selfishness.”

“You don’t have to remind me. It’s just that deep down I don’t think Frank’s a bad man.”

“Of course he isn’t. But knowing that doesn’t help me.”

“So that’s it—you’re going to walk away?”

“I don’t know.”

They ate in silence for a few moments.

“So how’s it going with Jenson?”

“Still pretty amazing. I bought him a gold earring stud . . . you know, just as a token.”

“I see,” Barbara said, doing her best to sound noncommittal, but suspecting she sounded decidedly committal.

“What does ‘I see’ mean?”

“You tell me.”

“Look, I am not falling in love with him.”

“Then why—on top of paying him—are you buying him
tokens
?”

“I like him. Aren’t I allowed to like him?”

“I guess so,” Barbara said. “But it’s more than that, and you know it. You’ve formed an emotional attachment to him, and you know how dangerous that is.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It is. I’ve got the whole thing under control.”

“I hope you have, because falling in love with a thirtysomething guy you pay to have sex with you may not be your smartest move.”

“I’m not in love with him. Honestly. I like him, that’s all. And he makes me happy. Now, can we just drop this? I know you’re worried and I appreciate it, but really there’s no need.”

Barbara shrugged. “OK. If you say so.”

They fell into silence for a second time.

“By the way,” Barbara said eventually, “Freddie, the boy I’m tutoring—the one you hooked me up with—could be dyslexic.”

“Well, at least his parents have got the money to get him the help he needs. The kids you teach aren’t so lucky.”

“I know. Why is life so bloody unfair?”

“OK, enough miserablist talk. Get this . . . So my cell goes on the way over here. It’s Adam with the latest wedding update. . . . Felicity wants doves.”

“Doves? Aren’t they a bit nineties?”

“A bit? And even then they were tacky. But apparently Felicity thinks releasing doves is spiritual.”

“Not very spiritual when they crap all over you.”

“That’s what Ken said when I called him. He said we have to put our foot down.”

“Good luck with that.”

They suddenly became aware that Cleo was coughing. Barbara went in to her. She was sitting up in bed. Every so often she would cough so hard that she retched. Barbara gave her some water. The cough eased off for a few moments and then started up again.

“Goodness, you’re burning up,” Barbara said, feeling her granddaughter’s forehead.

Jean tapped on the door. “Mind if I come in?”

“Cleo, you remember Aunty Jean, don’t you? She’s a nurse.”

“I thought she helped get babies out of mummies’ tummies.”

“Well, that’s a type of nurse,” Barbara said. “So it might be a good idea to let her take a look at you.”

Cleo nodded as she hacked. Jean took her pulse and felt her cheeks.

“Bar—can I have a quick word outside?”

Barbara followed her into the hallway.

“She’s terribly hot and her pulse is racing,” Jean said. “And I recognize that cough. It’s an asthma cough.”

“I’m not with you. I though asthmatics wheezed.”

“Some do. Some get a bad cough, which often starts as a chest infection. Hasn’t Jess taken her to the doctor?”

“Homeopath.”

“Oh, for crying out loud.”

“Jess doesn’t approve of antibiotics. The homeopath’s got Cleo on something called Pulsatilla.”

“What she needs is drugs. I really don’t like the look of her. Did you notice how rapid her breathing is? I think we need to get her to the hospital.”

“You think it’s that serious?”

“It could get that way. Look . . . you take her. I’ll stay here and look after Atticus. Oh, and I’ll call Jess. Leave me her number.”

Barbara helped Cleo pull a sweater on over her pajamas. Jean shoved her bare feet into trainers. As soon as Cleo stood up, she said she felt dizzy. Cleo was no small weight, but Barbara managed to carry her down the narrow staircase and out to the car.