Ten Years On (20 page)

‘Me?’

‘Tell me more about your life with Olly.’

‘We were happy, but we went through tough times too. Olly could be the life and soul of the party – you remember what he was like.’

Joe nods.

‘But behind closed doors he’d have these dark spells.
He’d stop playing the piano, wouldn’t want to see friends, didn’t want to talk …’

‘I remember he could be moody, want things his way.’

I explain about the writing and the rejections.

‘What did he write?’

‘Historical novels to begin with, lots of research, his second home was the library. Then he switched to comedy. He wanted to write something contemporary.’

I confide how unhappy Olly had become teaching, but I don’t tell him how he’d packed in his job without telling me; I’d feel disloyal. ‘He was always funny, warm, lovely to be around, when he wasn’t driving me insane,’ I add with a smile.

‘And you? Do you still paint? I loved your lemon tree. It was hung over your fireplace at Bristol.’

I’m touched he remembers.

I take a sip of tea. ‘I gave up my freelance illustrating to work for Glitz. Olly felt guilty about it, and I did resent him for a while, but one of us had to change careers. We needed to earn more, especially if we wanted to have children and buy a house. It all seems fairly pointless now.’

‘Becca, do you think you could live here again?’ he asks, as if the idea has just come into his head.

‘I don’t know.’ Until this moment, I hadn’t even given it any thought.

I’m chopping tomatoes, while Joe is adding various ingredients to the bubbling mince. ‘A pinch of paprika,’ he says, ‘a slosh each of Worcester sauce and balsamic vinegar …’

I hover over Joe. ‘Vinegar in mince?’ I say, before realizing with panic that I sound like my mother. Fuck.

‘Has to be balsamic. Gives it a kick and a punch. What are you smiling at?’

‘I don’t know.’ I’m now thinking of the schoolchildren gaping at his red boxer shorts.

‘Come on. Tell me.’

‘I can’t believe you stripped down to your boxers.’

‘I’m competitive.’

‘Actually, I don’t know why I’m surprised. You did whip your towel off in front of me the first time we met.’

He slips past me to get the cheese grater, his arm brushing against mine. ‘Thank you,’ he now says to me.

‘What for?’

‘For breakfast. Going to St Catherine’s Hill. Today …’ He pauses, runs a hand through his hair. ‘It meant a lot to me.’

I think of Joe letting go of the balloons and the things he’d said. ‘What you said, it was lovely, and I know it would have meant a lot to Olly too.’

27

It’s early October, week six of the wine course, and tonight Joe has prepared a lesson on Riesling, Gewürztraminer and Chenin Blanc. ‘Riesling smells like petrol, citrus fruits and beeswax,’ Joe claims.

Adam raises his hand to talk, something Joe has been encouraging him to do. ‘Wasn’t Riesling a favourite of Queen Victoria’s?’

‘Spot on. There’s a small vineyard in Hochheim called Königin Victoriaberg, which means Queen Victoria’s Hill. She and Prince Albert visited it, and it was duly named after her and her love of Hoch wine.’

I sit down, exhausted, my feet swollen like puff pastry. Mum is concerned I’m overdoing it now. I have my twenty-eight week scan tomorrow and my tiredness is increasing. I have reassured Mum that when the course
finishes in two weeks, I will slow down, and focus on the baby and my forthcoming antenatal classes. I have asked Kitty to be my birthing partner. ‘Great, so long as I don’t have to watch,’ she’d said.

‘OK, you know the rules,’ Joe says. ‘Everyone on their feet. Let the competition begin! Is this wine a Chardonnay or Sauvignon? Sit down if you think Chardonnay.’

There is a lot of muttering, which Joe discourages.

Everyone sits down except for Henry. ‘Well done, everyone; bad luck Henry, you’re out. It
is
a Chardonnay.’

I continue to watch Joe. Since our walk up St Catherine’s Hill we have become closer, and I’m selfishly relieved Peta secured that role in the thriller as it keeps her in London.

Joe has talked to me a lot about his father. When he first moved down, his dad was still able to teach him how to fish and they spent many happy hours on the river. ‘He talked to me about Mum and how he’d taken her to
Swan Lake
on their first date. For the first time, Becca, he asked me about my break in Australia with Uncle Tom. He regretted losing touch, said he’d been a stupid old fool. He described his childhood, how he’d spent a lot of time abroad because his father was an
ambassador. I hadn’t even known that! Some of his memories of the Second World War were incredible,’ Joe continued, and I could see how much this time with his father had meant to him. ‘His family had to flee France, which had fallen to Germany by then. They caught the last ship out of Bordeaux. The boat was meant to carry two hundred people, but seventeen hundred were shipped across to England. Dad would have been a little boy back then.’

‘Next question,’ Joe says, ‘is this wine New or Old World? No conferring!’

Some evenings, after work, Joe and I have headed back to his flat to eat toasted sandwiches. He makes me a mug of hot chocolate and occasionally we watch television. Sometimes we talk about Olly and the old days. When I think of what lies ahead I’m excited, but I’m scared too. Joe listens, doesn’t spout clichés or tell me everything will be all right, because deep down, who knows what the future holds?

Joe scans the room. ‘Just three of you left in the game now.’ It’s between Janet, Scott and Adam.

Gallant Henry helps a tired and tipsy Janet to her feet once again. ‘Final question – and this is a toughie, Scott,’ Joe does a poor imitation of the Australian’s
accent – ‘is this wine made in the northern or southern hemisphere? Sit down if it’s the south.’

Come on, Janet!

She collapses into her seat. Scott and Adam stay on their feet.

Joe makes the sound of a pretend drum roll. ‘It’s the south. We have a winner!’

‘Well, I’ll be jiggered. I’ve never won a damn thing in my life!’

Adam and Scott clap graciously.

‘Never mind all that. What do I win?’ she asks.

‘Didn’t have the foggiest,’ Janet whispers to me when the lesson is over, ‘but my knee was giving me jip.’

‘I love this,’ I gesture to her red coat, helping her put it on.

‘Bought it at a charity shop. Oh look, Michel’s here.’ Am I imagining it, or does her face light up?

Joe and I watch Janet being escorted from the room on the arm of Michel. They are chattering like teenagers, Janet telling him about her winning a bottle of nice wine, which she will keep for Christmas and drink with mince pies when her sister comes to stay.

‘I think they’re in love, don’t you?’

I turn to him, incredulous. ‘She’s eighty-four, Joe.’
I’m waiting for Olly to say something funny, but he has been quiet for a while.

‘So? He’s seventy-six, but what are numbers?’ Joe continues. ‘Michel would drive her to the moon if he could.’

Janet turns to me, waves her stick in the air to say goodbye. She’s a picture of happiness, her cheeks glowing. Or maybe that’s just the wine.

28

Twelve weeks to go. I sit in the waiting room ready to see the midwife, who is going to measure me and do routine blood tests.

I’m not sleeping well. The closer I am to having our baby, the more I think about Olly. Maybe it’s because I’m apprehensive about returning to London. I’ve been with my parents for four months now, and once I’ve had the baby, I need to think about our future. I have also been thinking about Glitz and whether I want my old job back after the baby is born. Can I afford not to work? In many ways I need to make a new start, but where do I begin?

Olly, tell me what should I do, talk to me.
I close my eyes, trying to conjure him up, craving the sound of his voice. Has he stopped communicating because I’ve been busier working at Maison Joe, and happier these past few
weeks? Or is it because I’m spending more time with Joe?
Are you jealous? You don’t need to be, I promise
.

‘Rebecca Sullivan.’ I open my eyes. ‘Rebecca Sullivan?’ the midwife repeats. ‘How are you today?’ she asks as she leads me into her office.

When I return home, I put my car keys on the hall table. Oscar and Theo are lying on the sitting-room floor, watching
Kung Fu Panda
. I kiss them both, their skin soft and I’m touched when Oscar hugs me, even if he promptly pushes me out of the way so he can see the screen again.

Walking down the hallway, I hear Mum and Pippa talking in the kitchen.

‘You know what Todd’s like,’ I overhear Pippa say. I remain outside the closed door, listening. ‘He hates the idea of a stranger looking after the boys.’

‘I know, but I think it’s time,’ Mum says. ‘I’m not getting any younger, darling.’

‘Has Becca said something to you?’

‘Of course not. Now, I’ve got chicken drumsticks for their tea.’

‘Has she talked to you and Dad about what’s going to happen next?’

‘No.’

‘You look tired, Mum. It’s too much for you, isn’t it? Having her around.’

I hold my breath, lean closer towards the door.

‘What can we do?’ Mum raises her voice. ‘We have no choice. We can’t chuck her out on to the street. She’s our daughter, and if you were in her position, we’d do the same for you.’

‘I know,’ she agrees huffily, ‘but Todd and I get the impression Becca thinks she can just stay here forever.’

‘It’s hard …’

‘I know it’s hard for her, but what about you and Dad?’

‘I do a lot for you and the boys,’ Mum points out. ‘Rebecca needs me now.’

‘I know, but we still have to be realistic. There’s no way Dad can cope with a screaming baby for months on end …’

Anger rises in my chest. I want to shout at her, ‘But he can cope with Oscar and Theo anytime?’

‘I think you need to tell her where you stand. Otherwise she’ll think she can stay here indefinitely.’

I hear drawers being opened. ‘She doesn’t have a Todd.’ Knives and forks slam against the table. ‘She’s just lost her husband …’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I’ll be honest, it’s not always easy having her here, this is far from an ideal situation but …’

‘Well, tell her to go then!’

I push open the door and face them.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that.’ Pippa apologizes quickly, colour draining from her face. ‘I’ve had a tough day and … I really didn’t mean that,’ she repeats, coming towards me.

I step back, holding up my hands to ward her off.

Mum looks from Pippa to me and then back to Pippa, who clears her throat. ‘All I was saying to Mum was—’

‘I heard everything,’ I say, choked with emotion. ‘Ever since I came back, you’ve been jealous.’

‘Jealous?’

‘All your life you’ve been spoilt, Pippa.’

‘I have not!’

Mum steps towards us. ‘You two, please calm down. Let’s talk about—’

‘Do you know what it’s like to lose someone, Pippa? To go to bed and cry yourself to sleep every night?’

She stares at me. ‘I know what you’re going through —’

‘No. No, you don’t. I will never see Olly again. My baby has no father, but all you can think about is how it’s affecting
you
!’

Mum shuts the kitchen door. ‘That’s enough. The boys will hear.’

I turn to Mum, determined now to ask the question that’s haunted me for most of my childhood. ‘Why don’t you
ever
stand up for me? When Pippa wrecked my painting, all you could say was it was
my
fault for leaving it in the kitchen!’

‘That was years ago,’ Mum replies, but I can see she’s shocked that I’ve harboured this resentment for so long.

‘I’ve never felt good enough, Mum.’

‘Oh, Rebecca,’ Mum says, searching for the right thing to say. ‘Listen, we’re all tired …’

‘I’m not tired!’ I compose myself. ‘But you’re right. This isn’t ideal. I’ll leave. Go back to London.’

‘Rebecca,’ Mum pleads. ‘I don’t want you to go.’

‘Now you’re just being over the top,’ Pippa claims, when I open the door. ‘I didn’t mean for you to go right now, all I was
trying
to say was you need to make plans, you need to—’

‘Pippa!’ I turn to face her. ‘Keep quiet, before I say something I will truly regret.’

As I’m walking up the stairs, I hear Mum talking to Pippa, and to my amazement it sounds like she’s giving her a bollocking.

29

The taxi driver turns into a smart crescent in Notting Hill, pulling up outside a stylish white building with steep steps leading up to the front door.

‘Can I take you up on your offer to stay?’ I’d asked Glitz, calling him from the train platform at Winchester.

The house was in turmoil when I left. Mum was in tears; Pippa was gathering Oscar and Theo, both of them protesting because
Kung Fu Panda
hadn’t finished.

‘I need some space,’ I’d insisted to Dad, who had returned from his buying trip with Mr Pullen, the antiques dealer.

‘But where will you go?’ Dad objected. ‘You need to look after yourself. Please stay – sort this mess out.’

But I had to get away.

‘You are coming back, aren’t you?’ Mum had asked, fear in her eyes.

‘Crikey, Rebecca, how long are you moving in for?’ Glitz asks as he heaves my luggage up the stone staircase. I tell him I was in such a rush I just hurled everything in.

There are flowers in my room, a flat-screen television with a selection of DVDs, and glossy magazines lie on the bedside table. In my ensuite bathroom are lavender bath oils and rose and geranium shower creams. I tell Glitz I might move in permanently. He raises an eyebrow at that, before telling me that Marty’s in America visiting family, so it’s just the two of us rattling around.

‘Lovely,’ I say, fighting the urge to cry.

‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’ He sits down on the bed next to me. ‘Marty always says we Brits are too buttoned up, it’s better to let it all out.’

‘When I’m angry, Glitz, I walk to the top of St Catherine’s Hill and scream. I used to do it with Olly.’ I stare out of the bedroom window. When I turn back to him there is a pillow held in front of me. ‘Go on,’ he says.