Wonder Women (23 page)

‘I'm sorry for your loss.'

‘Yes, well. The kids couldn't get on my back fast enough to sell the place and move to a “retirement community”.' He spat the last two words as if they tasted bad. ‘But I wasn't having any of that. Still, the house was too damned big, so I thought, what if I make it into two flats? I'll live downstairs, take in a tenant upstairs, make a bit extra to top up the pension, and really piss my kids off.' He cackled at the thought. ‘I've been in the building trade all my life, so I just tackled each room like a project. And I think it looks all right.'

‘It looks more than all right. It's stunning.' Holly looked around the living room again. It wasn't just that the flat was beautiful; it had a warm heart. He might be a gruff old bugger, but the love he had felt for his wife, and the pride in his craftsmanship, shone through in every detail.

‘I can't believe you're not fighting off prospective tenants.'

‘You're the first to have made it through the door,' the old man said. ‘I've had a few I just didn't like the look of, and at least three that were bloody estate agents.'

‘Estate agents?'

‘I'm not having some poncey little twat called Farrell with mirror shades and two phones and a BMW earning commission on something I can manage myself.'

At this, Holly burst out laughing. ‘The Farrells of the world don't stand a chance against you.'

He smiled. ‘That's right. What's he going to earn commission for? I can get a lease form in WH Smith's. If something breaks, I'll fix it. If you don't pay your rent, I'll change the locks.'

And here, Holly thought, came the crunch. ‘And the rent would be …?'

‘I haven't decided yet.'

‘Okay. Do you have a rough idea?'

‘Well, I think rent should be based on how much trouble a tenant is going to be. So definitely more for children, pets …'

‘Musical instruments …' Holly chimed in.

‘Scratching the floors, stupid questions …'

‘Sewing machines?'

‘Don't mind sewing machines. My wife liked to sew. It's a good noise.'

‘So I ask you again … the rent would be …?'

He looked at her long and hard. ‘What can you afford?'

She looked back at him. She had to be realistic. It wasn't even as if her job was a-hundred-per-cent secure, working for a start-up business never was. She would love to live in this flat: she liked the old man, she adored the flat itself and the location was ideal. She named a figure. It wasn't the maximum she could pay, but it wasn't far off. She knew the flat was worth more, but she wasn't going to be bullied into paying more than she could afford. There was a long pause.

‘I wondered if you'd take the piss one way or the other,'
he said, ‘but you didn't. I know I could get more, but I like you, and that's a good enough offer, and that's enough for me.'

‘So …' Holly said, not quite daring to believe it, ‘I can have it?'

‘We'll have to do all the usual checks, but yes. Can't see why not.'

She wanted to hug him, but she was sure that would be one of the items on his list of things that would make him change his mind about letting to her, so she contented herself with holding out her hand and shaking his energetically. ‘I'm Holly, by the way. Holly Evans.'

‘Bob.'

‘Bob?'

‘Yes.'

‘Bob the Builder?'

‘That's right. And I've never heard that one before. Not. Any more smart jokes like that, young lady, and I'll put your bloody rent up. Now, would you like to come downstairs for a cuppa?'

Holly went back to Bob's a week later with bank statements, employment references and, embarrassingly, a note from her mum saying she was a good tenant. Bob, true to his word, had got a standard lease form. On the last page, he had written in dark, spidery handwriting:

Holly handed over her paperwork, signed the lease, carefully initialled each of the handwritten ‘clawses' and handed Bob a cheque for the deposit and first month's rent.

‘Right, young lady,' he said, ‘I'll check out your references and bank the cheque. But unless you hear from me to the contrary, I'll expect you to move in at the end of the week.'

It was good news, but of course, there was a catch. Holly had nothing to move. She had had no furniture of her own in Damon's lavishly appointed house in South Africa, and she hadn't bought anything since she'd been back in the UK, as she had been at her mum's. She could fit pretty much all her worldly goods into the back of her mum's car. She didn't own a plate or a knife and fork, let alone a bed or any furniture to sit on.

She hoped her mum might let her take the bed from the room she'd been sleeping in, and possibly the armchair. The rest, she'd have to buy. When she mentioned her move to Jo, Jo offered her their old sofa. It was perfectly sound, but the upholstery had taken the brunt of three years of Zach – not a problem for Holly. She bought some lovely plum-coloured fabric and spent one late night making a fitted slipcover for the sofa and new cushion covers. Then she borrowed her mum's car and spent a morning racing around IKEA, list in hand. She came out with a table and chairs and a couple of bookshelves that she would need to assemble, very basic crockery and cutlery and a few saucepans, and
some bright throws and pillows. The rest would have to wait. But there it was: she had the basis of a home, the first she could call entirely her own. She would be moving that weekend and she just couldn't wait.

When she got back to her mum's place, she opened the door and called out, ‘Mum, could you give me a hand? I've got a stack of stuff to unload from the car.'

‘We're in here, dear,' called her mum.

We? Who could be visiting at this time of day? Holly went through to the kitchen, and found her mother sitting at the kitchen table opposite Miranda. The first thing she registered was that Miranda had neither of her children with her. The second was that her sister had clearly been crying.

‘What's going on?' Holly asked. ‘What's wrong, Randa? Are the kids okay?'

Miranda shook her head. ‘The kids are fine. Sit down, Holly.'

Holly felt cold. Something was obviously very wrong. ‘Okay, hang on,' she said, irrationally trying to postpone the moment. ‘I just need to lock the car. It's got half of IKEA in it.' She walked back to the front door and held up the key remote. As she heard the locks in the car clunk shut, she somehow knew that when she walked back into the kitchen, something in her life was going to change forever.

Miranda had got up and put the kettle on and was bustling around getting cups and milk and sugar. Holly sat down next to her mother, whose small thin hands were resting on a folded piece of paper. They were all quiet for a minute, but Holly couldn't bear it. ‘Look, just tell me. What is it? Is it Paul? Or David? Did something happen to David?'

‘No, dear,' her mother said softly. ‘It's me.'

Holly looked over at her mum and saw her, really saw her, for the first time in months. She had been so wrapped up in her own life, and so irritated by her mother's feeble behaviour, that she hadn't been paying attention. Judith's skin was pale and dull and looked loose and sagging, and she was very, very thin. She'd always been slim, but now that Holly looked at her, she realised she could see the outline of her jawbone under the skin. She was almost skeletal. How could Holly not have noticed?

Judith pushed the piece of paper she had been holding across the table to Holly, who unfolded it. The letterhead said, ‘Dr E.K. Madison, Oncologist'. Holly swallowed hard. She skimmed the letter, but to be honest, it didn't make much sense to her. She registered the words ‘stage four' and ‘cancer', but that was about it. She looked up at Judith, her eyes wide.

‘I've been having some tummy problems for a while now.'

‘A while?'

‘A couple of years. I kept thinking it would get better, but it just didn't. I didn't want to bother the doctor …'

Holly frowned. She could imagine how her prudish mother would hate walking into the doctor's and discussing her bowel problems. She would have been mortified. But what had that reticence led to?

Judith continued. ‘Well, it has got a lot worse recently. I've been in some pain, and I couldn't seem to keep anything down. Miranda noticed that I'd got thin, and she nagged until I went to get checked out.'

Miranda. Miranda had noticed, not the daughter who
lived with Judith and saw her every day. Holly felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach.

‘Well, the doctor examined me and referred me to this specialist.' Judith indicated the letter. ‘That was only a few days ago. I thought it would take ages, but my doctor must have thought it was a bit of an emergency. And …' she hesitated. Miranda came back to the table carrying three mugs of tea. Judith looked at her, rather helplessly. ‘You tell Holly, dear.'

‘It's bowel cancer, but it's spread … to quite a lot of Mum's organs. They say they can operate, but there isn't a lot they can do.' Miranda burst into tears again and got up from the table to get a tissue.

‘So …' Holly managed. She wasn't going to cry like Miranda. She could barely breathe or speak, but she was damned if she was going to cry.

‘Well, dear, the doctor told me I could have surgery, but it would be very invasive and painful and wouldn't get rid of all of the cancer, and I could have chemotherapy, but the side effects would be dreadful. And with both courses of treatment, my chances are still rather poor.'

‘So …' Holly said again.

‘Well, I've decided just to have medication for the pain, and let nature do the rest,' said Judith calmly.

‘So you're just going to GIVE UP?' The words exploded out of Holly before she could stop them. ‘You're going to refuse all medical intervention and just sit there and FUCKING DIE?' She was faintly aware that she had just sworn in front of her mother for the first time ever, and that she was screaming at a dying woman, but neither of these things bothered her.
She saw only a red mist of fury. How could Judith be so pathetic?

‘You've got grandchildren, for God's sake! Martha's only little and Oscar's just a baby! And what about my children? What about the children I haven't had yet that won't know you? You can't! You just can't!' And then the tears came. Holly put her head down on the table and sobbed like her heart was being torn from her. Judith said nothing. She just gently stroked Holly's hair, like she used to when Holly was little.

A short while later, David arrived. Miranda had rung him and he drove over once he understood the seriousness of the situation. He spent some time trying to talk Judith out of her position on refusing treatment, but for once in her life, she was adamant and refused to be moved. By eight that night, she was shaking with exhaustion and excused herself to go to bed. The three siblings sat around the kitchen table, cups of tea untouched in front of them.

‘So what do we do now?' said Miranda helplessly.

‘Well, the first thing I'm going to do is talk to that doctor,' said David. ‘He hasn't been very clear in that letter about the prognosis. How are we supposed to plan? What are the real chances of success with treatment? Is surgery or chemo a better option? We need some facts.'

‘I don't think there are facts,' said Miranda. ‘Only odds, and he seems to think the odds are really poor.'

‘Well, what about a second opinion? A different specialist?'

‘You can try. But Mum seems pretty sure that she's had all the medical opinions she needs. I think she knew even before we went to see the doctor how serious this was.'

‘Don't be ridiculous, Miranda,' barked David. ‘How could she
know
? She's an old, sick, rather pathetic woman.'

‘She's only sixty-two,' said Miranda reasonably. ‘Hardly old.'

‘Nevertheless,' said David impatiently, ‘she's not some kind of soothsayer who can peer into her own body. For God's sake, the woman can't even send an email.'

For some reason, this made Holly snort with laughter, her only contribution to the conversation so far. Her siblings were playing their roles in this drama so well: Miranda was concerned and compassionate, David forceful and practical. But what was her role? She felt numb. Cold, afraid and numb. She had been so focused on her own life, she hadn't even noticed her mother was ill. She had just been irritated by her, like the selfish, self-involved teenager she was. Except that she wasn't a teenager. She was a soon to be thirty-one-year-old woman, who should bloody well have known better. And now, when her mother needed her most, she had her life in the back of a car in the road outside, and she was about to move away.

As if reading her thoughts, David turned to her and said, ‘Well, the one good thing is that you're here to keep an eye on her.'

Holly didn't know what to say, but Miranda waded in with, ‘Oh no, but Holly is about to move out. Weren't you starting to move today, Holls? That's what Mum said.'

‘Well, you can't go,' said David briskly. ‘Not the way things are.'

Holly wasn't entirely sure what she was going to do, but David's smug bossiness really got to her.

‘I've just shelled out a couple of thousand pounds in rent and a deposit. I've signed a lease and I have a carful of furniture. I can't just not go.'

‘All of those things are reversible,' said David. ‘I'm sure you can take the stuff you've bought back to the shop. And any reasonable landlord would excuse you from the lease and return the money. If you've signed with an unreasonable one' – his lip curled as if he thought that was highly likely – ‘we can use my lawyer to put pressure on them. They'll soon give in. Someone needs to be here, and it makes sense that it should be you.'