‘Oh, Maeve, I’m so pleased for you,’ I whisper.
Having been listening to everything she’s been telling me, my fears have been slowly falling away until now I’m just left with a cautious excitement.
‘But I know it’s not going to be easy,’ Maeve continues. ‘I’m not expecting us to be suddenly like mother and daughter. I mean, she had a mother for thirty-five years – I don’t want to replace that, but I hope we can get to know each other, become friends.’
The way she says that is so humble, so hopeful, that she almost breaks my heart.
‘I’m sure you will,’ I say encouragingly.
‘And do you want to know the best bit? When I confessed to her about how all this time I’ve been punishing myself for giving her up, she said it was
her
that should be thanking
me.
For giving birth to her and making the ultimate sacrifice by allowing her to be adopted by a wonderful couple who couldn’t have children of their own. And who gave her two brothers – who are also adopted – the best childhood anyone could have ever had.’
I smile, the bitter-sweetness of the story conjuring up all kinds of emotions within me. I look at Maeve, who’s wiping a tear from underneath the lens of her glasses, and I squeeze her hand even tighter.
‘And you know what else she said to me?’ Sniffing back her tears, Maeve suddenly breaks into a smile. ‘She said, “You’re going to be a grandmother.”’
My mouth drops open, and I shriek, ‘Maeve! Oh, my God, Maeve!’
Jumping up from my chair, I rush round to the side of the table and wrap my arms tightly round her. ‘Maeve, that’s fantastic! Though of course you don’t look old enough,’ I add. Breaking into the widest smile, I squeeze her so hard I nearly squeeze the air right out of her, and in an almost comedy moment, the waiter finally reappears with our teas, only for us to send them back with orders for banana splits with extra cream, to celebrate.
Later that evening, after Maeve and I have got back from the Gate of India and I’ve watched four episodes back to back of the BBC dramatisation of
Pride and Prejudice
starring Colin Firth, I’m in my hotel room, about to go to bed. Except there’s one thing I need to do first.
Tugging out my phone, I scroll down my list of contacts. I’m not expecting anyone to be there, but I can still leave a message. Finding the number, I press dial and listen to it ringing. As expected, it clicks on to voicemail. ‘Hi, Mom and Dad, it’s me. I’m just calling to say I love you both—’
‘Emily?’ My mom’s voice. ‘Is that you?’
I’m startled. ‘Oh, yeah, it’s me. I didn’t think you’d be back from your trip already.’
‘We got back today. Are you still in England?’
‘Um . . . yeah.’ God, this is silly, I should have waited until I got back to New York.
‘Are you OK, honey? What’s wrong?’
I think about saying, ‘Nothing, I was just ringing to wish you a Happy New Year.’ But then if I do that, I know it might be another twenty-nine years until I make this phone call again. And then it might be too late.
I hesitate, and then, before I know it, I just come right out with it. ‘Next year, can we spend Christmas all together. At home. As a family?’
There’s a pause. I can tell my mom’s caught by surprise. Then she says with genuine pleasure, ‘That’s a lovely idea, Emily. I think your father and I can hang up our backpacks for one year.’
Five minutes later, after we’ve said our goodbyes, I hang up the phone and flop back against my pillow. See. It was so easy. I was expecting a row, imagining I’d have to persuade them, but I was so wrong. Turning off the light, I close my eyes. It was as simple as just picking up the phone and asking.
Chapter Thirty-one
T
oday we’re leaving Bath on the last leg of our tour and travelling north to Cheshire to visit Lyme Park, used by the BBC as the setting for Pemberley for their
Pride and Prejudice
adaptation and the famous lake scene with Colin Firth.
It’s an early start. We’re due to leave after a 6 a.m. breakfast, and after packing my things quickly – ‘pack’ being a rather euphemistic word for screwing up clothes and stuffing them into my suitcase as if I’m trying to mop up a leaking washing machine (having recently mopped up my own leaking washing machine, I know this to be true) – I dash downstairs to the lobby to send an email.
Since last night I’ve made three big decisions:
- I can’t do anything about Spike. It’s too late. That horse has bolted, as my grandmother would say, which is rather apt considering my New Year’s Eve experience. So I’m just going to have to try and forget all about it.
- But I can do something about the email I received from Mrs McKenzie. Instead of waiting until I get back to New York, I’m going to bite the bullet and write another reply asking them outright if they are planning to sell the business. I’d prefer to know now, rather than prolong the agony and spending the next forty-eight hours worrying about it. It’s like ripping off a plaster: painful but over quickly.
- I’m going to stop using all these ridiculous sayings.
Ten minutes later and I still haven’t sent my email to Mr McKenzie.
Having opened up the mail from Mrs McKenzie and pressed reply, my resolve has failed me and now I’m sitting here, fingers poised on the keyboard, staring at a blank email and a blinking cursor. I don’t know what to write. I’ve already sent them that email hoping Mr McKenzie gets better soon. What I really want to write is, ‘Do I still have a job to come back to?’
Immediately my stomach starts churning and I feel a heavy foreboding descending upon me. On second thoughts, maybe I should give biting bullets a miss for the moment.
I press ‘delete’.
‘So that’s where you’ve been hiding!’
With my finger still on the key, I twirl round in my chair to see Rose bearing down upon me in a pungent cloud of perfume that I don’t know the name of. But then I never cease to be amazed by those girls who the moment they meet you gasp, ‘Oooh, is that Dolce & Gabbana you’re wearing?’ As someone who’s been wearing white musk since the age of fifteen, I wouldn’t be able to recognise a Chanel No. 5 from a Glade air freshener if you paid me.
‘What on earth are you doing tucked away like a little mouse in that corner?’ she’s declaring loudly.
I force myself to sound casual. ‘Oh, I was just sending an email,’ I shrug.
‘To whom?’ she demands, raising her eyebrows. ‘Privacy’ is not a word in Rose’s dictionary.
‘My boss. To see if I’ve still got a job.’
Well, what’s the use of fibbing? Everyone’s going to know soon enough, I think glumly.
Rose looks perplexed. ‘Well, why shouldn’t you, my dear? I’m sure you’re very good at your job. A hard worker.’ She says that with a nod of approval and her diamond earrings rattle agreeably.
I smile gratefully. Rose is being very sweet, but she’s also being very naive. Gone are the days when being a ‘hard worker’ guaranteed success. Now it’s more about having a famous rock star for a parent.
‘Thanks, but I’m afraid Mr McKenzie, that’s my boss, the owner of the bookstore, hasn’t been very well. He’s been talking about officially retiring for ever, but now I think he’s really going to do it. And that means selling the business.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry,’ she pooh-poohs. ‘A bookshop will always need a manager. Who else is going to do all that tedious paperwork and what-not . . . ?’
God love her. Only Rose would think insulting my job description like that will cheer me up. And yet, ironically, it does a bit.
My face creases into a smile. ‘I know, but it won’t be the same. It won’t be McKenzie’s any more. Some big company will buy it and it’ll get all refurbished and modernised and totally lose its charm. I can see it now. Espresso machines, wi-fi, loud music . . .’ I heave a sigh, and sink down in the plastic chair. ‘Everybody wants new these days. No one seems to put any value on age and history.’
‘I know, I know . . .’
I glance up at Rose, who’s nodding pensively, deep in thought.
‘Actresses, bookshops, it’s no different,’ she’s murmuring to herself, and I remember what Rose was saying at the ball, about being invisible.
‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean—’ I begin quickly. Shit. I don’t want her to think I’m insulting her. But Rose silences me with the palm of her hand.
‘Emily, dear, you have
nothing
to be sorry about. It is
society
that should be sorry.’ And closing her eyes, she rests the back of her hand on her brow and takes a huge, shuddering sigh.
I’m almost tempted to applaud. For the first time I see Rose not as the diamond-clad senior citizen on a Jane Austen book tour, but as the youthful twenty-something who wowed theatre audiences as leading lady. And I can see why. She’s actually pretty good.
‘Excuse me, Miss Bierman?’ The manager of the hotel pops his head round the wall. Small, with lopsided features like a Picasso painting, he smiles nervously. Stuck to his chin is a piece of pink tissue where he’s cut himself shaving.
‘Yes?’ Rose snaps her eyes open and transforms herself from tragic victim to demanding diva as she rounds on him. ‘
Yes?
’ she barks even louder.
The manager swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down furiously. ‘I wondered if you’d care to take a look now. I think you’ll find it’s to your
exacting
standards.’
His brave stab at sarcasm is punished by an icy look.
‘Well, thank you, Mr Geoffries. Let’s hope it is, shall we?’
‘What is?’ I hiss at Rose, as she turns away to follow the manager, who’s disappeared back round the corner. No doubt with relief that his head is still attached to his shoulders.
Smoothing down her bob, Rose flashes me a bright smile. ‘Come and see.’
The woman smiling down at me in the black-and-white photograph on the wall of the lobby has cheekbones like coat-hangers, delicate almond-shaped eyes and lips so full they’d send Angelina Jolie running for the collagen.
‘Wow, she’s beautiful,’ I murmur. She looks about the same age as me, but it’s hard to tell from a photograph. I glance across at Rose, about to ask her, when I notice she’s just standing there, staring up at the framed photograph, her face filled with pride.
Of course. How could I not notice the resemblance? OK, the lips are not nearly as full, and the eyes are now heavily crinkled in the corners, but there’s no denying it’s Rose. I peer at the signature in the corner. Yup, there it is: Rose Raphael. Her stage name.
And then I remember her conversation with Spike. His suggestion she put a signed photograph of herself up in the lobby, along with all the others, next to Judi Dench, and how I thought he shouldn’t be teasing her like that.
I feel a beat of regret.
Well, that’s another thing I got wrong, isn’t it?
‘Don’t you think it should be a little higher?’
Rose is looking at me, eyebrows raised.
‘No, I think it looks great there.’ I smile brightly.
The manager, who’s standing behind us, holding a hammer and a box of nails, braced for action, shoots me a grateful look. I get the feeling there’s been more than one nail hammered in the wall this morning, trying to get this hung right.
‘But are you sure I’m not clashing with Judi?’ persists Rose.
‘No, I think you’ve both got plenty of room to breathe,’ soothes the manager.
I shoot back a look of admiration. He’s obviously a professional at this. Judging by the number of photographs on the wall, he’s obviously had to deal with his fair share of demanding luvvies.
‘Hmm, do you think so?’ Rose is saying, but she’s allowing a smile to creep across her face. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t want to overshadow her or anything.’
I have to stifle a smile. Only Rose could worry about overshadowing an Academy Award-winning actress.
‘And she does look rather old next to me, don’t you think?’
Considering that your photograph was taken probably fifty years ago that’s hardly surprising, I want to say, but of course I don’t. This is Rose’s moment, and she’s thoroughly enjoying herself. In fact, this is the happiest I’ve seen her all tour. The last thing I want to do is spoil it by giving a reality check.
‘Yes, I think she does,’ I reply, and turning to Rose, I wink.
She breaks into the broadest smile. ‘Perfect. Then let’s leave it there, shall we?’ she announces, turning to the manager.
A look of relief floods his lopsided face.
‘And as for you, Mr Geoffries . . .’
Oh, God, what now?
scuds across his features.
Grabbing him by the shoulders, she plants a large kiss on his astonished cheek. ‘
You
are an absolute star!’
Rose’s picture draws quite a crowd. Until now, I think most of the women had secretly thought Rose boastful and her tales of her ‘renowned beauty’ and ‘theatrical prowess’ somewhat exaggerated. But now, with their memories jogged and the evidence indisputable, they’re full of admiration and questions:
‘Ooh, did you act with Sir John Gielgud?’
‘I
thought
I recognised you! I saw you on stage at the Old Vic in 1955.’
‘Rose Raphael? You’re
the
Rose Raphael?’
‘Tell me, what is Judi like?’
Rose, of course, is utterly delighted. Fielding questions like a seasoned politician, she seems to really come alive, recounting anecdotes from her theatre days to an eager audience. In fact, it takes all of Miss Steane’s skills as a tour guide to break up the crowd and chivvy everyone out of the lobby to board the waiting coach.
I hang back. The thought of seeing Ernie after everything that’s happened isn’t something I’ve been much looking forward to. After that whole made-up story he told me, all those lies about Spike, what on earth am I going to say? Anything? Nothing? Should I just ignore him? Confront him?
What?