Behaving Like Adults (53 page)

‘I can't believe,' said Claw, ‘that half of that actually happened. I feel about a stone lighter.'

‘Me too.'

‘Most of the time I don't think of them as
people
.'

‘I know. Just Mum and Dad.'

‘They were . . . good about Stuart, weren't they? They weren't . . . shocked in the wrong way.'

‘No, they were brilliant. I am slowly coming round to having healthy beliefs about it all, but it's much easier to maintain belief in your healthy beliefs when your parents do too. Parents are so powerful, and I don't know that ours realise that.'

‘I think they do. That's what makes them better than most other parents. They're so gentle with us. I could never have imagined, in a million years, Mum and Dad attending secret lesbian lunches. I have friends who swear they'll
never
come out to their parents because they know the response will be too painful to bear. But this was more like six of one, half a dozen of the other, my God, they're practically fag hags!'

I bent over the steering wheel laughing. ‘You're right. They pretty much came out to
us
!'

Claw clutched her head. ‘Jesus. I've had a revolting thought. Hol, do you think – do you think there's a remote possibility that our parents are . . . 
funky
?'

‘Next thing you'll be suggesting they still have sex.'

‘Oh stop it,
gross
!' screamed Claudia, ‘Oh no, they can't do! Holly Appleton, you know very well they've only done it three times, once for each of us.' Pause. ‘I mean, it runs in the family. Look at Granny.'

The sad truth is that our mother's mother (she of the ‘an apple tree will grow inside you') had a strict Victorian upbringing and didn't know that sex led to pregnancy. She thought sex was one thing, and babies were another, that your body produced them when it was ready. And, when she
did
fall pregnant with Auntie Rose, she didn't realise from which orifice the baby would emerge. ‘She thought,' boomed Auntie Rose, ‘that when the time came the doctor would make a neat little slit in her side.'

The wonder of it was, she had two children.

Claudia and I sniggered, for a moment teenagers again.

She was in a rush to see Camille, so she declined my offer of coffee. As I walked to the door, it opened. I squeaked before I remembered.

‘Gloria! Oh, thanks for feeding Emily, sorry it was last minute. Were her injections okay?'

Gloria scowled. ‘Like givin' Satan a measles jab.'

I made an apologetic face on behalf of my cat. ‘Sorry. Do you want to come in for a sec?'

Gloria lifted her wrist on which there was no watch. ‘Can't. Busy.'

She looked tired, and paler than normal. Her tomboyish clothes and porcelain skin made her seem young and fragile. I suppose I wanted to cheer her up.

‘I've seen Dr Goldstein, by the way. Twice. He's brilliant. He's helping me to see things in perspective. Thank your cousin for recommending him.'

I gave her an encouraging smile, but she drooped.

‘Yeah,' she said, scuffing her sneakers on the doorstep. ‘He's good. But then some of us aren't so fucked in the head as others.' She gazed at the ground, letting her fringe fall over her eyes. ‘Then it's easy for a shrink to be brilliant.' She raised her head and stared at me. ‘Some of us have outside support. Their friends and family believe them. They don't say shit like “Yeah, he's a bastard, Glor, but it was
your
fault.”'

‘No, I—'

‘Then it's like swimming the Channel with a lead weight tied to yer neck.'

I was lost for words. I'd never seen her like this. Bitter. She was always so cheerful.

She dragged a fist across her eyes. ‘Run out of pills. Forgot to send in my repeat prescription, didn't I?' She laughed, a horrible hard laugh. ‘Be fine tomorrow, though. Right as rain.'

‘Gloria, please, won't you come in for a bit and sit down?'

I stepped towards her with an arm outstretched, but she shook her head, pushed me away, her small hand leaving a throbbing imprint on my chest. She turned to go. Then she stopped, her shoulders sagged. ‘If you can make sense of it, then.' She faced me. ‘There
is
no making sense of it though, is there? You've been straight with me, Hol, so I reckon I owe you . . .'

She tugged at her poloneck, and my breath caught. A jagged white scar cut across the pale flesh of her throat. I shook my head, my eyes hot with tears. And for the second time in two days I found myself with a bawling woman in my arms. I rubbed her back, and told her she owed me nothing, she didn't have to
say
anything. A minute in, she ended the hug. She spat a strand of long hair out of her mouth. ‘It's enough,' she said, ‘that you understand.' She granted me a thin smile and hurried to her car.

I felt shaken. I'd had a suspicion but now it was confirmed it was as if I'd been digging about in someone else's laundry. I didn't know why, after a bad experience, some people merely survived while others learnt to thrive. Was it to do with the severity of the experience itself or the personality, even the age, of the victim? Was recovery linked to the people around you? If this was even a possibility, and I was certain of it, I'd make an effort to see Gloria more often. For my sake, as well as hers.

Our exchange had altered the mood, and when the phone rang I pounced on it.

‘Where
have
you been?' demanded Issy. It was a delight to hear her bossy voice.

‘Em and Dee's.'

‘Of course. Silly me. Eden, darling, what have you –
noooo! stop that!
– naughty girl! Really bad! Oh my God. The artist will just have to paint over it, Frank will just have to track him down.'

‘Issy?'

‘Sorry. I don't believe this. You know my ten thousand pound painting,
Sky and Sea, the Maldives
? By that very edgy, very now, very expensive artist, whatsisname?'

‘Mmmm.'

How could I forget? This work of art dominated their open-plan lounge, truly a showpiece. It was a ten-foot square canvas, the lower half painted a deep blue, the upper half a pale blue. While some (Claudia) might call this pretentious, it was actually a restful, beautiful painting. You could feel the faint breeze in the skeins of cloud in the sky, lose yourself in the haze of the horizon, feel the sun on your face and hear the rush of the waves.

‘Eden just took a black marker pen and drew a boat on it.'

I tried to sound sympathetic. The best I could come up with was, ‘You sound very calm, considering.'

‘Only because Michael and Lavinia Mortimer are sitting in my kitchen.'

‘What! Why?'

‘Normally, I couldn't tell you, I'd be breaking all sorts of rules, but as you, apparently, were the one who said “get thee to a couch”, they're happy for you to know that they decided to come to
me
. Anyway, the reason I rang is that Michael wanted to talk to you – something legal, he says, bring the letter? – and I thought you might as well come round here. Eden's dying to see you, although mainly because she expects a gift. No confectionery though. At least three of her little friends suffer from ADHD,
plainly
because their parents constantly give them sweets to shut
up. Of course,
I
only have to put Mozart on the stereo and Eden goes as quiet as a mouse – she remembers it from when she was in the womb.'

God, people who have children are smug.

‘How about I bring her some new marker pens?' I said sweetly, and put the phone down. I sank into a chair. I was elderly, I tell you, elderly. Once you pass thirty you can't cope with more than one late night and an hour's excitement in a weekend without chemical assistance. Michael could only be referring to the writ – which was still radiating hatred and poison from the bottom of my bag. I'd wanted to discuss it with Dr Goldstein but each session was only fifty minutes and we hadn't had enough time. As it was, I spoke twice as fast as normal to get my money's worth.

I was telling myself that I wouldn't have ignored it until the twenty-eight days were up and I was hauled off to the stocks, when a thought occurred. Nick.
Nick
must have told Michael about the writ, because how else would he know? With my fabulous powers of detection, I came to two conclusions. Nige had told Nick that it was okay to tell Michael. Even though he'd broken off the engagement, Nick couldn't hate me that much. My mouth curled into a smile. I galloped upstairs, showered, changed and applied lipstick. Then I smacked my chops at myself in the mirror and bared my teeth. As Nick would say (about me, rather than himself) ‘I'm Woman – Outta my way!'

I sped downstairs, locked up, hopped in the car and sped to Issy's. It was only as I rang the doorbell that I realised I hadn't performed my usual trick of ringing as I parked the car, so that I didn't have to spend one half of a second loitering like prey on the porch, ripe for ambush by evil men who were, doubtless, lurking in bushes. I cheered myself with the thought that any man who could successfully hide behind one of Issy's lavender plants had to be no taller than a Ken doll, so if he tried to attack me I could step on him. I was congratulating myself on actually
believing
me, when Eden opened the door.

No sign of Frank.

‘Mummy's gone to bed, she's got a migraine,' she announced.

‘Oh dear,' I said, and tried to edge past her. Her hands were always sticky, like she'd rinsed them in marmalade. ‘Happy Sunday. It's a sketch pad.'

Eden shot my gift a derisory glance. ‘That's not a present, that's
paper
. Sandy gives us that free at kindergarten.'

‘Then
I'll
keep it,' I replied. ‘Move, please.'

I scurried into the lounge. Michael was perched on a beige minimalist sofa. Issy had had it specially commissioned by a well-known designer to fit the room. He looked highly uncomfortable, like a dog sitting on his squeaky toy. But happy. Michael rose to his feet, and Lavinia swept in from the kitchen, bearing a tray of tea and biscuits. I noticed Issy had left out her antique bone china for them to make use of. (This was on a par to lending out her husband.)

Lavinia looked radiant. ‘Isabella was feeling poorly,' she whispered, ‘I'm afraid listening to us rather wore her out.'

I nodded at the defaced painting
Sky and Sea
. ‘I doubt it was entirely your fault.'

For the first time in our acquaintance, Lavinia giggled. I'd only ever heard her laugh, always an elegant sound. This was schoolgirlish. ‘Holly, we are so obliged to you,' she exclaimed. ‘We've seen Isabella a handful of times on an informal basis, more of a chat than anything else, but it has been ever so informative, quite revelatory. With the benefit of hindsight, I feel ashamed for being quite so . . . 
dense
where Nick was concerned. We were dreadfully short-sighted, it's no wonder he reacted as he did. When we were able to see the situation from his point of view, we were appalled. But we didn't want him to think we had consulted Isabella for show. She suggested we write him a letter but then' – her voice lifted with joy – ‘
he
telephoned us. His attitude had changed completely. He was willing to
. . . build bridges. He'd spoken to you, Holly. It was thanks to you. The three of us are having supper at Simpson's tomorrow night.'

Michael smiled at me, a grave paternal smile, full of concern. ‘He also had a word with me about a legal matter with which you required assistance.'

He glanced at his wife who, beautifully mannered as she was, took the hint and retreated to the kitchen. A little lump in my chest, as I realised neither Michael nor Nick had told Lavinia
what
the legal matter was, and that – unlike a normal human being – she had accepted my right to privacy without question. Of course, everyone wants to be respected, but when you have had respect torn away from you, you are especially grateful to those who see it as your due.

Michael took my hand and held it. His hands were warm and dry. ‘Holly,' he said. ‘I regard you as the daughter I never had.' He pressed his left hand to his heart. ‘I'm so deeply sorry.'

I nodded. He didn't need to say anything more. ‘Thank you,' I said. I fished the dog-eared summons out of my bag.

‘I can't say what a relief it is to have you look at this,' I added.

Michael studied it for three seconds, his bushy black eyebrows beetling together. His face turned redder and redder, and he burst out, ‘This is garbage!'

I breathed in.

‘What a load of old bollocks! I'll apply to have it struck out tomorrow. He didn't write to your solicitor before taking action, did he?'

‘I don't
have
a solicitor.'

‘
I'm
your solicitor! He didn't write to me, which is protocol. The court would take a very dim view. There's a penalty for this. All he's done is popped down to court, filled in an application and no doubt served it himself. Stuck it through your letter box, did he? What a pile of nonsense! What a bloody fool! He has to show that you
reported him to the police out of malice, which is notoriously difficult to prove. And he's a solicitor! Good God, he must be one of the worst! A disgrace to the profession as well as to humanity! If only he'd consulted a colleague – they would have told him not to start this case.'

The feeling was like shrugging off a heavy coat. I stared at him. ‘So . . . it's okay, is it?'

Michael waved the summons in the air. ‘I beg you. Do not give this piece of wastepaper another moment's thought. I'll deal with it tomorrow morning, and that will be the end of it. He was trying to bully you, Holly, nothing more.'

I closed my eyes. ‘Michael, thank you
so
much. I . . . the relief, the peace of mind.' Words failed me, so I gave him a hug. As I drew away, I noticed I'd ruffled his hair. For a second I wondered if I'd been too familiar – the Mortimers weren't given to lavish displays of affection – but he looked as pleased as punch.