Mindsight (12 page)

Kieran laughed and shook his head. ‘Clare doesn’t want to know about that.’

‘Oh yes she does. Clare, you must get him to show you. Which reminds me, Kieran, don’t you owe me a meal?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ he said, smiling and raising his dark brows at me. ‘I’ve got a lot on at the moment, but you’ll both be invited as soon as I have a free evening.’

At least I wasn’t going to be cornered into agreeing to anything here and now, and the little smile Kieran gave me when Nic went to collect a ball Molly had thrown into the bushes suggested he intended to let me off the hook.

They both evidently knew Bunches
and it was enough that I was able to talk about Stella and Harriet for a few minutes. ‘No Dad there either?’ Nic said.

‘No, but Stella and her daughter are very close.’

‘There’s hope for us all then,’ she said, refilling our glasses before I could stop her. She laughed as I began to protest, saying, ‘Go on, let yourself go. There’s another bottle in the fridge. In fact, Kieran, if you’ve got my key on you, can you go and get it? I’m knackered from running after her ladyship.’

He pulled some keys from his pocket and rattled them at her. ‘I knew there was a reason you wanted me to look after your spare.’

When he was inside, Nic leaned towards me, speaking softly. ‘So what do you think of Kieran, eh? Bit of all right isn’t he?’

‘He seems very nice.’

‘Well he likes you. I can tell by the way he looks at you. And before you got here just now he was asking about you.’

Chapter Ten

Back in the flat, the suitcase was still lying in the corner, still open, and I knew I needed to check through it once more. There was a CD down the side of the case, and when I pulled it out I remembered what it was: photos I’d taken at Emily’s hen weekend. Apart from the pictures of the wedding itself these were the closest in time to the accident.

I slipped the disc into the laptop and here was Emily, in a silly little veil and tiara, with Alice and myself, all gurning for the camera, drinks raised high. It was the last time we three were out together – all so carefree.

It was hard to look through, but I forced myself to go slowly: to try to put myself back in those moments, to go behind the smiles and recall how it had really been. My trousers were too tight, I remembered and I had been uncomfortable lolling on the leather sofa in the cocktail bar. And I’d been worried about Alice because she looked so tired, working long hours in A&E at the hospital and obviously finding it difficult.

I clicked onto a photo of Emily, sitting on her own at the table in the restaurant where we’d eaten. She seemed unaware of the camera, looking at something or someone in the distance, and her expression was almost unhappy.

Something else I’d forgotten was that she’d told me the night before how difficult things had been with Matt for a few weeks.

‘It’s not us, Clare, it’s work, but it’s affecting us.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘All this trouble with the Briomab fiasco.’

‘I didn’t know he had anything to do with that, and anyway it’s all sorted now, surely.’

She’d laughed then and put it down to pre-wedding jitters from both of them. But now I had to wonder. And was it something I could ask her about?

Right at the bottom of the case was a scrapbook I’d kept as a kid. I couldn’t see how it could help, but maybe going right back might jolt my memory into action.

Sitting on the sofa, I flipped through it. The early pages made me smile, they were filled with pictures cut from magazines, cute kittens and rabbits mostly. I’d forgotten how much I longed for a pet when I was about ten. After that there were dried flowers and grasses squashed under messy strips of Sellotape. Then some rubbings of stones and shells in different coloured crayons that represented the extent of my artistic phase. A few cuttings of pop stars came next and then – ah this was better – some photos.

I must have taken them with my first real camera. Lots of snaps from the Christmas when it was one of my presents. A couple of pages of Alice at various times, clearly enjoying the attention. Then a few of Mum and Dad on what looked like birthdays. Finally, a couple of Lorna. How lovely she was then and how I adored her: the fairy godmother nickname was never really a joke to me.

Here she was in our sunny garden, sitting with Dad, plates and drinks on the table. It must have been one of those times when Mum was in hospital and Lorna came round to cook for us.

And, as I looked, I understood the meaning of that expression about scales falling from your eyes. It was so clear from the way they sat, his hand across the back of her chair, her smiling up at him. Why had I never suspected?

Lorna had always been far more than Dad’s secretary, even more than just a family friend, but I’d always thought of her as
my
special person. I looked at the photo again – maybe I was wrong, what could you really tell from one picture? And she had been there for me when I needed her. If she really had loved Dad, could she have been so good to me when she knew I’d killed him?

All of us – me, Alice and Emily – had worked at the office with Lorna at various times as teenagers. So, of course, she was at Emily’s wedding, and even though she wasn’t called to give evidence, she came to the trial every day. Looking at her now, so elegant, I thought again how dreadful she must have found it when she visited me in prison.

Being searched, sitting in those bleak rooms, on scratched plastic chairs, and trying to keep chatting when I was so often surly and ungrateful. More than once she had to watch as a fight broke out. And then there was the time, as she was about to leave, when the warders wrestled a prisoner to the ground in front of her. I was being taken out, but I could still remember Lorna’s look of horror as she saw the woman’s mouth forced open to get at the drugs her boyfriend had passed her in his goodbye kiss.

I told her several times she shouldn’t keep coming, but it was Lorna, along with Alice, and later Ruby, who helped me to stay sane – to carry on living.

Lorna lived just off Kensington High Street, and as I stood waiting for her to open the door, I reminded myself again of how wonderful she had been to me all those years ago. What the neighbours must have thought about a bedraggled teenager, smelling of vodka and worse, even daring to enter their street, let alone being welcomed inside one of the neat mews houses, I could hardly bear to think now.

Those days, when she let me have a warm bath, dress in clean clothes, and fill up on proper food, were what I credited afterwards with keeping me in touch with the normal world. Allowing me to see it might be possible to become part of that world again one day.

But more important than all the comforts was the knowledge that at least one person still thought I was worth something – still loved me, whatever state I was in. But now I wondered if she really did care for me, or if I was just another way to keep close to my dad.

When she opened the door she held me for a long moment. I let my hands rest on her shoulders. Even now I hoped she’d tell me I was wrong, there had been no affair. But would I believe her if she did?

She walked heavily as she led me into her small living room. Of course her knee was bad, but she also seemed depressed. ‘There’s hot coffee in the kitchen, but I’ll leave you to bring it in, if you don’t mind. Thank goodness it’s not much longer till they fix me up.’ She patted her leg and lowered herself into a pale leather armchair. It was placed so she could look through the length of the room to the French windows and beyond to her lovely courtyard garden.

The tiny kitchen gleamed. There were pots of herbs on the window sill: basil, parsley and thyme, and the coffee percolator sent out fragrant steam. The oven was warm, obviously cooking our lunch. It smelled good and a bottle of red wine stood next to the coffee mugs, but when I went to the fridge for milk, I noticed how empty it was. A bowl of salad, a pork chop in its Sainsbury’s tray, a small wedge of stilton, some yogurts and a bag of grapes – the fridge of a single woman, and possibly a lonely one.

I put the tray of coffee on the low table and sat on the sofa, glad of the chance to fuss with the cups and milk. ‘You’ve done a lot with the place.’ I waved my hand to take in the vase of lilies; the fitted bookcases; the gleaming parquet flooring.

‘Well, your father left me some money, so I was able to buy it, after all those years of being a tenant, and I’ve really enjoyed making it my own.’

This was the moment to ask her about their relationship, but I found I didn’t want to. It was so good to be with Lorna, in the way we’d always been. When I didn’t speak she murmured, ‘He was very generous.’

I sipped my coffee, my throat so dry it seemed to have closed up. Lorna shifted forward on her seat. ‘I’ve worried so much about you all these years, you know – even though I suppose I had no right.’

I couldn’t stop my chin from wobbling, and set my cup on the coffee table, looking down and rubbing my eyes. Lorna pulled herself from her armchair and sat beside me, taking my hands.

‘Things are bound to be difficult for you for a while. You just need to take it slowly, one step at a time.’

We were quiet for a bit and I leaned back into the cushions and closed my eyes. She stroked my hand, her voice soft. ‘I’m really not sure it’s a good idea for you to start stirring up the past again. It’s bound to upset you. Couldn’t you just forget it, and get on with the here and now?’

I wanted nothing more, at that moment, than to say yes, but it was too late. I had to face it. I sat up, pulled my hand away, and moved to leave a gap between us, twisting to look at her. ‘No, I can’t. I owe it to Tom and to myself. It is difficult because I’m discovering things I wasn’t prepared for. That even people I loved and trusted completely may have deceived me.’ My heart was beating wildly. What if I was wrong?

‘Are you talking about Steve?’

‘What?’

‘Didn’t you say the police thought you took the drugs because you found out something about him that night? That something was wrong with your marriage?’

‘Yes, they did, but that’s not what I mean.’ I stood and went to the French windows. In the courtyard a robin perched on a stone bench pecking at something, his bright eyes watching out for trespassers on his patch. I took another breath and turned to her. ‘You were Dad’s mistress, weren’t you?’

One of her thin hands, shaking now, reached out towards me, but I leaned back against the window. ‘Oh, Clare,’ she said.

We stared at each other. Her dark eyes were shadowed but steady, and I looked away first. ‘So, all those years, when I thought …?’ I walked back towards her, unable to stand still. ‘All the attention you gave me was just to keep close to Dad.’

‘No, no. You can’t believe that. I loved you. I still do.’

I was almost glad to see the tears in her eyes. ‘Well you had a strange way of showing it.’

She was fumbling for a tissue and I turned away again. There was so much I wanted to say, but now it seemed pointless.

After a while I heard her blowing her nose, and as the robin flew onto the branch of a tree, head dipping up and down as he continued his fierce surveillance, she spoke. ‘How long have you known?’

‘I found an old photo of you and Dad and it was so obvious I can’t think why I never guessed. You covered it up very well, or maybe I just didn’t want to see.’

‘It was wrong, I knew that and Robert did too. But Elizabeth wasn’t easy to live with and yet he couldn’t leave her. She was so unstable there was no telling what she might have done. He certainly couldn’t leave you and Alice with her and he knew she would try to keep you from him if they’d separated. ’

‘So, when Mum died, why didn’t he marry you?’ I looked at her and saw her eyes cloud again.

‘It was more or less over by then. We waited too long, I suppose, or maybe Robert realised marriage wasn’t really for him after all.’

Obviously the decisions had all been on Dad’s side. ‘Still,’ I said, ‘you got this house.’ It was vicious, and when her hand went to her mouth, I hated myself.

She didn’t speak for a moment, then looked up at me, her eyes brimming. ‘Please, Clare, come and sit by me.’ And when she patted the cushion next to her I did as she asked.

She reached over and touched my hand. I let it rest and met her eye, fighting to hold back my own tears as she spoke. ‘You have every right to be angry with me, but please believe I always loved you. Probably more than I loved your father. But I loved him too and I’m not ashamed of that. I just wish there had been some way to be more honest with you.’ I shook my head and folded my arms across my middle like an angry child as she went on. ‘If you can’t forgive me I do understand, but, believe it or not, I’m glad you know. I hated all the lying and, however you feel about me, I shall still go on loving you.’

I couldn’t bring myself to stay for lunch because I knew I’d handled it badly with Lorna and I was afraid of making it worse. Now I sat huddled in the corner of the train carriage, wishing I’d used the journey here to plan what to say to her. Instead I’d spent the time imagining all the other passengers were watching me and worrying about how I would cope with the busy London station and the crowds outside. Why, oh why, had I been so pathetic?

As we pulled out of Charing Cross, and passed over the river, I stared at the London Eye, my thoughts echoing its endless slow turning. For the first time in my life I felt sorry for Mum. If she guessed, and I suspected she did, it must have been awful for her. Not only having Lorna invading her home, but hearing me prattling on about her all the time.

I suddenly recalled, very clearly, one incident from when I was seven or so. A friend’s mother had brought me home from school and I ran into the kitchen – which was much smaller in those days. Alice was in her high chair chewing on a piece of toast and she raised her hands to me in delight. ‘Care, Care,’ she crowed, unable to get her baby tongue around the
l
in my name.

I had laboured for weeks at school on a piece of sewing, rows of coloured cross stitches on a strip of cloth. A bookmark I called it, and after I had leaned in for a Marmite-sticky kiss, I began waving it in front of Alice’s face.