Now and Then Friends (32 page)

Better to go to London and work at a decent job, even if she suspected it existed only because her father had given a large donation to the charity. Better to fit into the world she knew and maybe try to make a place for herself there.

So why did the thought fill her with dread? She
wanted
to stay here. But she wanted other people to want it too. She wanted Rachel and Dan to want her to stay.

Claire sank onto her bed, gazing around the bedroom she'd called her own even though it had never felt like it. Her mother had had the whole house ruthlessly done over by an interior decorator years ago and had refused to allow Claire or Andrew to put posters on the walls or do anything to personalize the spaces.

For a second Claire imagined finding a cheap place to rent in the village, even if just a room. She'd never had a place to call her own; even the flat her parents had arranged for her in London had been stamped with her mother's signature of thick carpets and expensive throw pillows. Claire hadn't dared to change anything.

She'd never dared, period. About anything, ever.

She opened the top drawer of her bureau and reached for the mobile phone she rarely used. She needed Andrew's advice right now.

She had one new text, sent from Rachel several days ago:
What do you say you take on part of Campbell Cleaners permanently? If you're really thinking of staying in Hartley-by-the-Sea?

Claire read it several times, the words hardly making sense. Why would Rachel have suggested she take over part of her business, only to wish her well in London a few days later? Why hadn't she even mentioned the text, the whole idea, when Claire had seen her?

A memory flashed through her mind: Claire coming into school at the end of Year Six, surrounded by stupid Wyndham wannabes, and catching sight of Rachel standing against the stone wall, her arms folded. She'd looked away the minute their gazes had met, and Claire had felt a second's rejection before her attention had been claimed by the other girls.

Now she remembered that Rachel had been standing there alone. That her mother must have injured her back around that time, that her life had fallen apart. And that Claire had been the one to walk away.

Just like she would walk away now, and Rachel would let her; Dan would let her. She'd let them let her, because she'd always,
always
let other people direct her movements. Make her choices. She'd thought she'd changed, but in that moment Claire realized she hadn't. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

She started to text Rachel back and then decided a conversation would be better. But first she needed to talk to her parents.

They came in at ten o'clock, murmuring to each other, and Claire heard her mother's low laugh—a sound she never associated with herself—before it abruptly stopped as Marie caught sight of her.

“Claire? Is something wrong?”

“No. Nothing's wrong.” Claire took a deep breath and held her
hands more tightly together, because otherwise she was afraid they would shake. She'd never stood up to her parents. Never in her whole life, except for coming to Cumbria three months ago, and then she hadn't had to confront them. To stare them down.

“Then why are you sitting here like—oh, I don't know.” Her mother gave a false little laugh, and Claire saw her gaze dart to the liquor bottles in the cabinet in the corner of the room.

“I haven't had any alcohol, if that's what you're worried about,” Claire said. Her voice sounded strange, harder than normal. “I don't actually have a drinking problem, Mum.”

“Oh, Claire . . .”

“Why would you believe Hugh rather than me?”

Marie blinked at her for a few seconds. “You never denied it.”

Which was unfortunately true. She'd just gone along, meek and shocked, half convinced. “No, you're right. I should have said something. I should have stood up for myself a long time ago.”

“Stood up for yourself? Claire, what is this nonsense—”

“I'm not going to fall in with your plans this time, Mum. Dad.” Claire moved her gaze to her father, who was still standing in the doorway, his expression stony. “I know it will be a disappointment to you, although maybe it will be a relief. Perhaps you're as tired of managing me as I am of being managed.” Her parents simply stared, and Claire forced a smile. “I don't want to go to London. I don't want to work at some charity simply because Dad's paid them to hire me—”

“That's not true,” Marie protested, and Claire looked at her father once again.

“Did you give them a donation?”

“That's irrelevant.”

Which meant he had. “I appreciate what you've done for me,” Claire said, although it was only half true. “All along. I know you've been worried about me, and I know I've been a disappointment in a lot of
ways. But I'm twenty-eight years old and I need to see if I can stand on my own two feet. And I want to do that here, in Hartley-by-the-Sea.”

Marie looked genuinely baffled. “But why? I mean, darling, you're working in a poky little shop. And you don't know anyone here. . . .”

“I do,” Claire said. “I have friends. And I like it here. I want to try to make a life for myself. Here.” She took a deep breath. “I'm sorry, but I'm not going to London with you.”

“So what did Claire want?”

Meghan stood in the doorway of the kitchen while Rachel stared down at the papers she'd shoved in a drawer. Her application to the University of Lancaster. She closed the drawer and turned to face her sister.

“She's got a job in London. Figures.”

“So she's leaving?”

“Looks like it.” Rachel shrugged dismissively and opened the fridge to look for something to make for tea. She wasn't surprised Claire was leaving, not really. She just hadn't expected it to hurt quite this much.

“So who will take some of your cleaning jobs?”

She'd forgotten she'd actually told Meghan her plans, after sending that stupid text to Claire, when the world had seemed as if it were shimmering with possibility. Now she recognized that as an illusion. Except she wasn't going to let Claire West ruin her plans. “I don't know. I'll figure something out.”

“You'll still go to uni?”

Rachel closed her eyes briefly. “Why do you care?”

“Because I actually care about you,” Meghan answered. “You dolt.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it, Rach—”

“I know you do.” Rachel took a deep breath. “We'll figure something out, Meghan. I wasn't depending on Claire to make it all work, trust me.” Except she sort of had been, at least a little. She'd envisioned Claire taking over part of the business, stepping in when Rachel went to classes.
Being
there.

Sighing, Rachel closed the fridge door. “How about fish and chips for tea?”

Meghan brightened. “Seriously? We never get takeaway.”

“Maybe it's about time.”

“What about Mum?”

“You can stay with her while I go—” Rachel stopped. “Actually, how about you go? And I'll stay.” Maybe things needed to change.

“Okay.” Meghan's smile looked genuine, and almost strange because of it. No mockery, no taking the mick. “I'll be back in fifteen minutes.”

While Meghan went out, Rachel settled Nathan in front of the telly and then went to check on her mother. Janice was lying propped up in bed, her face slack, her expression glazed and vacant. Just looking at her made Rachel's insides twist with sympathy and more than a little horror. To be so helpless, so trapped . . . It made her realize what a brave face her mother had put on her back injury all these years, trying to downplay the pain, not to fall apart when her husband left her alone, an invalid with three kids to raise. Rachel had been so consumed with how much she'd lost, she'd never really considered how much her mother had. A husband, a partner, a
life.

“Hey, Mum.” She took a step into the room, and her mother blinked at her, her face jerking in what Rachel had come to recognize as a smile. “You all right?” She sat on the edge of the bed, something she rarely did, and touched her mother's hand. Her flesh was plump and puffy, cool and slightly damp.

Surprise flared in her mother's eyes at the touch, and Rachel felt another twist inside, this time of guilt, because how often had she ever
shown her mother affection? She'd stayed in the doorway; she'd busied herself as an excuse to keep from dealing with the difficult stuff. The stuff Meghan had had to deal with every single day.

“You have a rehab appointment on Monday,” she said, and her mother gave a jerky nod—at least Rachel thought that's what it was. She and Meghan had taken their mother to rehab twice, both times requiring a monumental amount of effort simply to get her out of the house. A wheelchair had finally arrived courtesy of the NHS, but even heaving their mother from bed to chair was a Herculean task.

Even harder was the actual rehab; Rachel had noticed how much better Meghan was at it than she was. She sat with their mother, listened to the nurses, offered encouragement. Smiled while Rachel shrank back. She must have been doing similar stuff for years, and Rachel had never known. Rachel had tasked Meghan with taking Janice to most of her doctor's appointments, and then she'd breezed in once in a while to make sure everything was on track. Supervising without suffering.

Janice tried to speak, but Rachel couldn't make out the garbled words. She shook her head. “Sorry, Mum. I can't understand.”

Janice tried again, and then again, enunciating each word as best as she could. “Oo . . . ah ree . . . ?”

Finally Rachel realized what she was trying to say.
You all right?
Or
areet
, if they were going to be Cumbrian about it.

Gently Rachel squeezed her mother's hand. “Yes, Mum,” she said. “I'm fine.”

*   *   *

Rachel didn't see Claire for the rest of the weekend, and on Monday morning, when she drove by the post office, she didn't glimpse her inside. Had she already left, without so much as a goodbye? Wouldn't be the first time.

Monday afternoon Rachel canceled her last cleaning job so she could be back home when Lily returned from sitting her exam. She'd made a cake, a gooey chocolate mess that hopefully tasted better than it looked. Her heart was beating hard, although with excitement or nervousness she couldn't tell.

Then the front door opened, and Rachel came into the hall to see Lily trying to slip upstairs.

“Well?” Rachel asked eagerly, even though Lily's closed expression didn't bode well. Anticipation burst in her chest anyway. “How was it? Not too hard, I hope?”

Lily turned around, taking a deep breath. “I didn't sit the exam, Rachel.”

For a few seconds the words didn't penetrate. Rachel simply stared at her, her mouth opening and closing like a fish's. Finally, stupidly, she said, “What?”

“I didn't sit it,” Lily repeated, her voice clear and firm, and she walked past Rachel into the kitchen.

Rachel followed, anger and incredulity blooming inside her where once a wonderful anticipation had been. “You didn't . . .” She could barely get the words out. “You didn't sit the exam? You didn't
take
it?”

Lily was at the sink, pouring herself a glass of water. She shook her head.

“
Lily.
Why on earth . . . ? Did something happen? Were you ill—”

“No. I just decided I wasn't going to take the exam.”

“You just decided,” Rachel repeated.

Lily looked at her warily. “Yes.”

“You just decided, even though you've spent the last two years preparing for this exam.”

“Yes—”

“You can retake it anyway,” Rachel cut across her, her mind racing. “We can say you weren't feeling well. You'll have to delay entrance a
year, but you can still sit it next year.” She closed her eyes briefly. “Damn it, Lily.”

“I'm not going to take it next year, Rachel.” Lily's voice was almost gentle. “Or ever. I don't like biology. I don't want to study it in university. I certainly don't want to take out forty thousand pounds' worth of student loans to study a subject I've never enjoyed.”

“But . . . but you're so good at it.”

“And you're good at cleaning people's houses. Does that mean you want to do it for the rest of your life?”

“It's not the same—”

“Maybe it is,” Lily returned evenly. Suddenly she seemed very grown-up. “More than you've ever been willing to believe.”

Rachel raked her hands through her hair, unable to formulate any coherent or measured response. This was so unexpected, and yet maybe that was simply because she'd been so willfully blind. Meghan had warned her. Lily had been trying to tell her. But for her sister to simply throw everything away . . .

“Why?” she asked finally. “Why didn't you at least sit the exam? Since you studied for it? You could still turn down Durham, but at least you'd have had the qualification.”

“Because I knew I'd cave to pressure and go anyway if I did,” Lily said.

“Pressure? You mean . . . from me?” Lily nodded. Rachel's breath came out in a rush. “Is that how you see me?” she asked. “As someone who is pressuring you? Nagging you?”

Lily hesitated. “Sometimes,” she said. “Yes.”

Rachel walked into the sitting room and sank onto the sofa next to Nathan, who immediately curled into her, leaning his head against her shoulder. Absently Rachel stroked his hair, and Lily followed her into the room; she sat opposite and waited, her hands tucked between her knees.

“Are you angry with me?” Lily asked in a small voice.

“Angry?” Yes, she was angry. She was bloody furious, but even more than that, she was sad. So terribly sad. “I'm not angry, Lily,” Rachel said wearily.

“Really?” Lily sounded skeptical—and no wonder.

Rachel had spent a lot of time being angry or irritated or just impatient, so sure that she was doing the right thing. The hardest thing. And it hurt to think that maybe, all along, she hadn't been.

“I don't know what I feel,” Rachel admitted. “Sad, mostly.”

“Because I'm not going to Durham?” Lily's voice had thickened, as if she was fighting back tears.

“Yes,” Rachel admitted. “I had such plans for you. And I still think going to Durham is the best thing for you.” She sighed and leaned her head back against the sofa. “But I recognize that decision is not one for me to make. You have to make your own choices, Lily, and that means making your own mistakes.”

“So you think staying at home is a mistake.”

“I'm afraid it's a mistake,” Rachel corrected carefully. “You don't realize the opportunities you could have. . . .”

“Actually, I do. I went to Durham, Rachel, remember? I saw the beautiful old buildings and the student union and all the rest of it. I know what I'm giving up. Mostly.”

“Then why . . . ?”

“Because I don't like biology. I don't want to be a biologist—”

“You know a degree from a good university can get you just about any job—”

“Not the kind of job I want.”

Rachel fell silent. She knew there was no point to this argument; Lily had already made her choice. “So what is your plan exactly?”

“I'm going to apply for a part-time course at the Lakes College, in art and design.”

Rachel closed her eyes, struggling not to wince. To give up a place
at Durham for a part-time course at a community college. It felt wrong. “And live at home?”

“Yes. I thought that might be better.” Lily's voice was hesitant. “I could help with Mum.”

“Is
that
why—”

“No. I told you. This is what I want, Rachel. Honestly.”

Rachel shook her head, unable to speak for a few seconds. Her throat felt thick with disappointment and sadness, and she struggled to find even the semblance of a smile. “Like I said, you need to make your own choices.”

“I wish you could be happy for me.”

“I will, eventually,” Rachel managed. “Give me time.”

“Hey.” Meghan's voice rang out from the kitchen. “Who made the cake?” Lily winced. “Because the top layer is sliding off.”

Rachel rose from the sofa. “I guess we don't need a cake anymore,” she said, her voice brittle.

“We're not celebrating?” Lily sounded sad.

No, they weren't bloody celebrating. Rachel took a deep breath. “I suppose we might as well eat it before it slides onto the floor.”

As soon as they came into the kitchen Meghan sussed what was going on, simply from their faces. “Uh-oh.” She stuck a finger in the dripping icing and sucked it off .

Lily made a face. “Eww, Meghan. That's vile.”

“So you told her?”

“You knew?” Rachel whirled around from the cupboard, and Meghan took another fingerful of icing

“I knew she was thinking about not taking the exam,” she said, and swallowed.

Rachel banged the plates onto the table. “Did it have to come to this? Couldn't you have told me before, Lily—”

“I tried. You never wanted to listen.”

Which was probably true.

“The only person in this family who wants to go to Durham, Rachel,” Meghan said, her voice surprisingly gentle, “is you.”

Rachel closed her eyes. “And I can't.”

“Maybe not Durham, but why not Lancaster? You've filled out the application—”

“I know.” Rachel opened her eyes and sniffed. “We'll see,” she said.

A couple of hours later Rachel remained downstairs, wiping kitchen counters that had already been wiped as Meghan and Lily went upstairs to get ready for bed. The pipes clanked and the floorboards creaked, but otherwise the house was quiet, the last of the sun's rays slanting through the kitchen window even though it was ten o'clock at night. Rachel used to love the late-summer evenings; when she'd been little she and her father had walked to the beach at nine o'clock at night, the sun still glinting off the sea. It had felt magical, like a secret they shared, to be out so late.