you’re there. I just wanted to check – you’re around in July, aren’t you, darling? No holiday plans or anything?’
‘Well…’ Laura said. ‘Er.’
Angela looked at her. ‘Er?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Laura.
‘The whole of July? You’re not sure?’ said Angela disbelievingly.
‘Well,’ said Laura, collecting herself. Good god, she was being stupid. ‘Any time’s good. I was thinking…thinking I might be on holiday in July sometime, but I’ll wait till you tell me a date and then plan it round that. Of course I’ll be there. And do tell Granny thanks for the blinds, too. I love them.’
‘You could ring her up and tell her, she’d be over the moon. She’d love to hear from you. Maybe you could meet for lunch, she was saying she hadn’t seen you for a while.’ Angela wrapped her scarf carefully around her neck.
It was true. Mary was not usually offstage. She was normally someone Laura saw once every other week, even if it was just to pop in for a drink after work, or to meet for a coffee. But Laura hadn’t seen her for a while. She pushed the thought from her head, and the associated guilt, and said,
‘Yes, I must call her. I must. Just been quite busy. Now, safe journey,’ she added. ‘Paddy will be disappointed he missed you, you know how much he loves you.’
Angela blushed. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Thanks for the tea, darling. And call Granny. I’ll let you know when we decide for the party.’
‘Yep,’ said Laura, standing at the doorway. She waved as her mother disappeared down the curving staircase, and wandered back into the flat, kicking a stray football out of the way. As she stood in the hallway she realised it had been Christmas when she’d last seen her grandmother. That was ridiculous. It wasn’t as if she could say she lived in the middle of nowhere, either. Mary lived behind Baker Street – ‘within walking distance of Selfridges, good for the soul, my dear’ – in Crecy Court, a Thirties apartment block that Laura absolutely loved. It was like a step back in time, a veritable Who’s Who. She shared the block with Cedric Forsythe, an old Rank actor from the Fifties, who’d starred opposite Margaret Leighton and Celia Johnson; Jasper Davidson, a painter who’d lived in St Ives until he’d broken his hip three years ago; and Dilys Darcy, a long-forgotten Fifties crooner who’d been best mates with Alma Cogan and whose memory was sharper than a tack.
She went to pick up her mobile, to get her grandmother’s number off it. There was a text from Dan.
Can I come over? Have told Amy I’ll be late tonight. I really need to see you and I want you. I miss you so much, beautiful girl. Please say yes. D
As Laura stood holding the phone, the doorbell rang. She started, dropped the phone, and went over to the intercom.
‘Hello?’ she said.
‘Did you get my text?’ said the voice. ‘Is Paddy there? Can I come up?’
‘Dan?’ Laura said shakily.
‘Yes, it’s Dan,’ the voice said, amused. ‘Who else sends you text messages saying they want to come over and give you a good seeing-to? Am I one in a long line, should I join a queue?’
‘Aaagh,’ said Laura. ‘I was just confused. I was about to call someone and I was just conf—oh, come up, sorry, I’m just being thick.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Dan. He lowered his voice. ‘I can’t stay long, I just wanted to see you.’
Laura’s legs wobbled a bit and she smiled into the intercom. And then, out of nowhere, she found herself saying, ‘I’d love you to come up. But not if you can’t stay. Oh Dan, I’m sorry.’
‘What?’ said Dan.
‘I mean,’ said Laura, ‘you’re not just coming up for a quick fuck and then scooting off again. Not that that wouldn’t be nice. It would –’ and she almost wavered, then checked herself. ‘Hm. I want you too, but no, that’s not going to happen. I’m really sorry. Night, darling.’
‘OK,’ said Dan. He paused. ‘I’m sorry,’ he went on. ‘You’re right. Shit, oh well. I deserve it. Soon, soon, you know? Can you do me a favour?’
‘Depends,’ Laura said cautiously, dreading him asking her to come outside and do it on the porch.
‘Can you look out of the window and wave, just so I can see you tonight? Right, I’m off then. Bye my darling. I wish…’
‘Bye Dan,’ Laura said softly. ‘I love you.’
The line went dead as she stuffed her fist into her mouth. I love you? Why? Why had she said that? Damn. She ran over to the window, and gazed out across the quiet suburban North London street. The rain had stopped and the night was clear, and on the street below she could see a tall figure staring up at her. She opened the window and looked down, and there he was, a small figure below her, his gorgeous face turned up towards her.
‘I love you too,’ he shouted, and his voice echoed in the silence of the street. ‘I love you.’
Laura stood there, her eyes filled with tears. And then she blew him a kiss and shut the window.
Laura’s parents still lived in the house she and Simon had grown up in, on the nicer edges of Harrow – Eastcote, really. In the late Seventies George and Angela had stretched themselves to the limit to buy the semi-detached, mock-Tudor villa with off-road parking at the front, three (and a half) bedrooms, a downstairs lavatory and a separate dining room. The garden was large enough for a climbing frame, a barbecue, a shed and a vegetable garden, as well as a conservatory-cum-patio where the Fosters would entertain in the summer months. There was an excellent primary school a ten-minute drive away, and the neighbours were all very nice. It was a good area. Respectable. Quiet. Theirs was the sort of road no one drove down to get to anywhere else, and the sort of neighbourhood where the nearest corner shop was a drive away, through quiet tree-lined streets with identical Thirties houses, and the only break in the monotony of the houses was the occasional car dealership on the corner. Cars – make and model – maps, routes and the price of petrol were all very important in Eastcote. And the garden centre at Syon was a nice drive away, too.
When Guy died eight years before, the family-minded George had hoped that Mary would want to move in with them. He thought she might be lonely, since Guy and Mary had been such a twosome. They had never really sat easily within the extended family as a whole – especially as Angela and Annabel were not naturally close. They were almost better grandparents than they had been parents, fond and funny, interested, interesting, wildly exotic to Simon and Laura. And they complemented each other perfectly: where Mary was amusing, a fund of endless stories and pearls of wisdom, Guy was kind, reliable. He could make things out of bits of string, could tell stories about places on the Silk Route, of emperors thousands of years old. His affection was boundless – for animals, strangers, loved ones – but most of all, for Mary. Always Mary; and she, in turn, only had eyes for Guy.
So when Guy had had a heart attack, unexpectedly (because he was the kind of person whom you expected would live forever), George and Angela drove over to Oxford to help Mary pack up, and as they were putting Indian carvings and strange Egyptian rugs into boxes, Angela asked her mother breezily if she’d like to come and live with them in Harrow. Simon and Laura had both moved out by then. Besides, no matter what you thought of Mary (and her daughter and son-in-law both thought her a little unconventional), you had to agree she was fun to have around.
But Mary said no. She sold the Arts and Crafts-style house in North Oxford where she and Guy had lived happily together for twenty years – when they were in the country, or not by the seaside, that is – packed up all her possessions (of which there were an exotic few – she had