tacit approval of my actions. She’s useless at confrontations, though she acts like a diva the whole time.
‘Goodbye, Miranda,’ Guy says, turning to her. ‘It’s been a sad day, but it was really lovely to see you again.’
‘Well—’ Mum blinks slowly, her long, soot-black eyelashes brushing her smooth skin. There is a crumb of mascara on her cheekbone; I stare at it. ‘It was lovely to see you again. It’s been a long time.’
He nods, and bows his head at me. ‘Natasha, you too.’ He clears his throat. ‘Once more, I’m sorry if you’ve thought I’ve been inappropriate, or anything like that. Let me—’ He fumbles in his pocket and takes out a card. ‘If you’re ever up this way—’
Guy Leighton Antiques & Rare Books Cross Street London N1
‘I’m sure we’ll be in touch, about the foundation at the very least.’ I take the card. ‘Well, thank you, Guy. Thank you.’ As if I am a dowager duchess whom he will never be fortunate enough to meet again.
‘Goodbye, then,’ he says, and shuts the door quietly behind him, with one last apologetic look at my mother.
The room is silent. ‘Are you OK?’ I say. Mum is blinking back tears.
‘I am,’ she says. ‘I’m just rather tired. It’s been a long day. Lots of memories, you know? And I’m worried about you, Natasha.’
She says it quietly, without tossing her hair or rolling her eyes or trying to get something. She just looks rather beaten, and it hits me in the solar plexus. I put my arm round her. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I tell her. ‘I wanted to explain about me and Oli, but it was . . . too hard. And then Granny died – I couldn’t just drop it into conversation, could I?’
‘So what happened?’ she says. ‘Do you want to tell your old mum about it?’
Mum isn’t very good at being a mum out of an Oxo ad. She’s better when she’s just being a person.
‘He’s been sleeping with someone else,’ I say.
‘An affair?’ Mum’s eyes are wide open now.
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘A girl at work. It was a couple of months ago. He says it’s nothing. It’s over.’
‘Ohh!’ my mother says, her voice high, as if that’s that then. ‘Right.’
I look at her.
‘That’s absolutely awful,’ she adds. ‘You poor thing.’
I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with her; in fact I remember one of the reasons why I dreaded telling her in the first place. Mum absolutely adores Oli. They get on really well. I often think they’d have a better time without me there. He thinks she’s hilarious, wonderful, and she plays up to it, and they get drunk together and egg each other on, like old boozers in a pub, and I sit there, wearily watching them, feeling like a beige carpet in a Persian rug shop.
There’s a frown puckering her forehead. I say, ‘I think he wants to come back, but I don’t know what to say if he asks. I just don’t know if I can trust him.’
‘Hmm,’ says my mum, one finger on her cheek as if consider ing this point seriously, and I remember the times I’d ask her when she’d be back home from a party or dinner with friends. ‘Hmm . . .’ she’d say, finger on cheek, and after a long pause, ‘not late, darling. Not too late.’ And then, when I’d finally got to sleep, worn out by being terrified by noises inside the flat that I thought were rats or sinister intruders, and of being terrified by noises outside the flat that I knew were masked robbers or deranged psychopaths, in the dark still hours of the early morning I’d hear the creak of the door and the soft tap on the parquet floor as she crept past my room to her bed. ‘Hmm . . . I’m just not sure.’
‘I am,’ I say. ‘I can’t trust him. I can’t have him back if I don’t trust him.’
‘He’s your husband, and he looks after you, and you don’t have to worry about anything,’ Mum says sharply. ‘I think you need to look at it like that instead, Natasha. I mean, he didn’t kill anyone, you know. He slept with someone. He’s a good husband.’
‘What?’ I am momentarily stunned, as though this is a modern-day version of Gigi and I am Leslie Caron and should just put up with it. ‘He pays for our nice life, for my new boots, I should just shut up, right?’
She stares at me defiantly. ‘Sometimes, darling, I think you just don’t get it at all. I’m just saying it’s hard, being on your own.’
I can’t answer this, as I know she’s right, but I can’t agree with her without hurting her feelings. ‘I just don’t know, Mum,’ I say. ‘I look at our life together and I—’
She interrupts me. ‘Relationships aren’t perfect,’ she says. ‘They’re not. You have to work at them. You were the first of your friends to get married, weren’t you?’ This is true, and I’m surprised she’s aware of it. ‘Perhaps you just don’t see your other friends in the same situations as you. And I’ve certainly not been much of a role model in that direction, have I?’ She grimaces, blinking rapidly.
‘He slept with someone, Mum. He didn’t forget our anniversary. It’s a bit different.’
‘Like I say. People make mistakes.’ She pauses. ‘Your grandparents are a good example. But they got over it.’
‘How? What do you mean?’
‘I mean –’ Mum begins, and then she stops. Her mouth is open, as though she’s not sure how to continue, and then we hear a noise.
‘Hello?’ someone calls from upstairs. ‘Hello? I think your grandfather needs help.’ I push open the swinging kitchen door. An old lady is standing at the top of the stairs, peering out of the dark. ‘I just came up here to use the lavatory and I heard him . . . he’s calling for someone.’
I see Louisa breaking away from her husband and Guy and hurrying towards the hall. I step out.
‘I’ll go,’ I say suddenly, watching my mother’s face. I can hear Arvind’s voice, growing louder.
‘Someone needs to come up here!’ he is squeaking. ‘Immediately!’
‘Thanks,’ I say to the old lady, who is waiting at the bend in the staircase. ‘See you later, Mum,’ I say, and I run up the stairs, my hands running along the smooth, dark wood of the banisters.
‘I do hope he’s all right,’ the old lady says, looking anxiously towards the closed bedroom door. I push it open and go in.
Chapter Nine
‘Hello, Natasha,’ Arvind says. He is sitting up in bed, small as a child, bald as a baby, his hands wrinkled and lying on the crisp white sheets. The wheelchair is parked neatly in the corner; a metal stand is next to the bed. They don’t go with the room, these metal hospital items. They don’t match.
I love this room, perhaps more than any other in the house. But here on this dark February evening the heavy brocade curtains are drawn, and it is gloomy, with only the light from a lamp on Arvind’s side of the bed. On Granny’s side the sheets are smooth, and the bedside table is empty except for a blue plastic beaker; there’s still water in it. I wonder how long it would take for it to evaporate all away.
‘What’s up, Arvind?’ I say. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I was bored,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to sleep. I wanted to put some music on, but I was prevented by your well-meaning relative.’ He nods. His teeth are on the side, in a jar. His voice is muffled.
‘Music?’ I say, trying not to smile. ‘I like Charles Trenet, so does your grandmother. When is a better time than at her funeral to play a compact disc of Charles Trenet? But that is not important.’ He taps the sheets with his fingers.