Nearest Thing to Crazy (28 page)

I called the day after lunch to say thanks, but his phone went straight to voicemail, so I left a message saying how much I’d enjoyed it, how much I’d loved chatting to Laura. What a terrific daughter he had – talented, beautiful. I heard from Sally that Cass had been to see her, and that she had seemed a bit – how did she put it? – manic, I think. Sally didn’t give me the details and I didn’t know whether or not Cass knew that I was meeting Dan and Laura for lunch, so I couldn’t guess the reason for her behaviour, but then I’d also seen her acting so oddly outside my house that night, hadn’t I? Oh, and by the way, tell me if I’m going too fast for you, too much detail. I just find it easiest if I tell you everything. Okay?

So, Jules Gale popped in for coffee the next day and naturally Cass came up in conversation and Jules said that she’d just seen her at the surgery. ‘Cipramil,’ she said, ‘I could have sworn that was an antidepressant. I’m sure that’s what the receptionist said. Perhaps she was getting confused with Canesten.’

‘Poor Cass,’ I said. ‘I told you she was going down, didn’t I? I told Sally and Amelia that I was worried. That day, when we first properly met, she hinted about feeling suicidal. I was so worried about her but I think she was just in denial. It’s what we all do. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to be frightened of. I mean, I’m sure we’re all just a hair’s breadth away from snapping sometimes. And the good thing is that she’s doing something about it. Poor Dan, he must be terribly worried about her – and Laura doesn’t need this to fret about. I wonder if Dan’s told her.’

I called Dan’s mobile later that evening, but again it went straight to voicemail. He was obviously up to his neck looking after her. I called Laura then to say hi and how much I’d enjoyed lunch. And I also said I thought I’d soon have some good news for her. I said that I was sorry to hear that her mum wasn’t well. But she didn’t seem to know anything about it. She said she hadn’t spoken to her mum for a week or so. ‘Oh,’ I just said. That’s all. I didn’t go into detail – it wasn’t my place to tell Laura, was it?

But they weren’t close, were they, Laura and Cass? I mean they couldn’t be close if Laura didn’t even want to speak to her, could they? I was speaking more to Laura than Cass was. So she wasn’t a good mother, was she? I was surprised that Dan didn’t call me back, especially after I’d called another couple of times. I just wanted him to know that I was there for him . . . if he needed me . . . if Cass needed me . . . Did I think he was ignoring me? No . . . no . . . definitely not. But I was surprised not to hear from him – especially as I’d told him I was going off to London and that I might have some good news for Laura.

I think I must have been only mildly depressed because I could still get out of bed in the mornings and go through the motions of doing what I had to do. I wasn’t one of those catatonic types, not engaging with anything. Not washing, letting their personal hygiene go to pot, withdrawing completely from everyone. No, I wasn’t that bad. The doc had told me that it would take about fourteen days for the pills to kick in, so I tried my best to keep myself occupied, doing small things, little constructive things to keep me busy. Thank God the garden club had been cancelled because the weather had been so bloody awful. Even though it was held in a greenhouse, the residents still had to walk across the garden to get to it, and so it was deemed “too risky” for their “frail constitutions”. That didn’t help my mood, to be honest. Long dreary, sodden days meaning I couldn’t get out into the garden. I decided to get on with some therapeutic chutney making which always made me feel good, turning some home-grown produce into delicious treats for the winter months. I’d got two wheelbarrow loads of Bramleys waiting for me, so I planned a cosy little afternoon for myself. I joined the afternoon play on Radio Four, pulled out the chopping board and looked for my favourite, sharpest Sabatier knife but it seemed to be missing, along with all sorts of other things. I was beginning to wonder if we’d got a family of borrowers living with us. I found a substitute and started peeling and chopping the apples and onions. I added sultanas, raisins, ginger, mixed spices, salt, muscovado sugar and lots of malt vinegar. The scent of the pickling liquor filled my nose, making my mouth water. All I had to do now was let it bubble away, uncovered, and watch it turn into a lovely, gooey, caramel-coloured relish.

Fiddling about in my kitchen soothed me, like a sort of mental massage, calming my nerves and chaotic thoughts. But even the thought of a massage came with other emotional baggage. I rubbed my hand over the top of my apron-covered abdomen and realized I’d drifted away from the voices on the radio. It was a play about a woman who’d suffered a stillbirth and was haunted by dreams of her unborn child. I remembered when I was newly pregnant with Laura. At first I had felt like I was carrying an alien inside me. I was terrified by the thought of not knowing who this child was going to be, of what she would turn into, of how I would cope with the responsibility. Sometimes I got so frightened that I explored the idea – only in my mind, of course – of getting rid of ‘it’. I’d never voiced any of my fears to Dan. But pregnancy causes all sorts of peculiar emotions. They say your hormones are all over the place, like having bloody awful, endless, premenstrual tension. And it hadn’t helped that I’d felt so sick all the time. I lost a stone in weight in the first three months. Some people blossomed into picture-book images of beautiful, rosy-cheeked Madonna types, the archetype of perfect maternity. Not me. I looked like a zombie from vomiting all day long. Sometimes I even imagined that this thing growing inside me was actually trying to kill me. I didn’t dare share my dread with anyone else for fear of what they might have thought of me. I mean, it’s not the sort of thing you hear pregnant women say, is it? ‘God, I hate being pregnant so much I think I want an abortion . . .’ I knew I wasn’t really
normal.
Maybe, like my mother, I wasn’t cut out for motherhood after all.

I kept my nightmares to myself and struggled through the eight months of torture, hoping that things would be all right when the baby arrived. But of course they weren’t – all right, that is.

The phone made me jump, as always, probably because I never expected it to bring good news. I glanced at caller display but the number was withheld. I knew the voice on the other end straight away, though.

‘Cassandra, hello. It’s me, Ellie.’

‘Hello.’

‘I’m in London with Amelia and I’ve done something really stupid. I’m wondering if you could do me a huge favour . . . I know it’s a bore and you’re probably terribly busy . . .’

I was tempted to say, ‘Well actually, yes I am. Frightfully busy making frightfully important apple chutney.’ But I didn’t. ‘No. Ask away . . .’

‘I’ve arranged to meet this man and I’ve got to cancel, and I stupidly left his number sitting on my desk. I wonder if you’d be a complete angel . . .’

I could barely answer. How many times had I fantasized about somehow gaining access to her house? I felt a surge of sheer, unadulterated euphoria at the thought that here she was, actually
asking
me,
inviting
me to go inside her house.

‘How do I get in?’

‘If you look at the edge of the terrace, where the grass starts, there’s a line of bricks and somewhere near the middle one of them is loose and you can lift it up. You’ll find a little box underneath, with a key inside. The telephone number is just sitting on my desk, on the back of an envelope, I think. Call me from my landline when you’ve found it. You’re such an angel, Cass. Thanks so much.’

‘Not at all. I’ll go now.’

I pulled the preserving pan off the cooker and took off my apron. Then I collected my glasses and my car keys before locking the front door behind me. I must have been lifting up bricks in her garden within five minutes of her telephone call. I located the small box, together with the key and then plunged it into the lock and the door clicked open. My heart was thumping in my chest. I needed to calm myself down before I called her. But first I had to find that bloody number. I walked over to her desk. The computer wasn’t there, so my euphoria drained away almost as quickly as it had come. All my fantasies about discovery were thwarted. No bloody computer, no bloody novel. The envelope was propped up against the base of a wooden carving. The name Stephen Myers was printed in capitals above a telephone number. I picked up Ellie’s phone, dialled her mobile and quickly read her the number.

‘Thank you so much, Cass. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’

‘No, no, not at all,’ I said.

‘Speak soon.’ And she was gone, leaving me in peace, in her house.

Her desk was neat and uncluttered. I sat down in her chair and placed my hands on the smooth polished wood. I closed my eyes for a moment and pictured Ellie sitting there, with her long legs stretched out in front of her. Then I opened my eyes and let them roam over the surface, looking for any clues about who this woman really was. I stroked the space where the computer would have been, remembering the day when I’d read all that awful stuff about Dan and her. And then I saw it. Sitting on one side of the desk, a wicker tray holding a stack of paper. Could I dare to hope that this was the manuscript? Was she so stupid as to invite me into her home with this lying around? I pulled the basket towards me. This was it, I was sure of it. She’d printed off a hard copy and left it sitting on the side of her desk. And then she’d invited me in. She wanted me to read it. This was by invitation.

I read the title page:

GASLIGHT

by Eleanor Black

Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to read.

CHAPTER

15

The last page. I started with the very last page she had written.

‘How? How can you get away when she watches you all the time?’

‘A little something to help her sleep, that’s all. Leave the key for me . . .’

I turn away from him and walk towards the city without looking back.

I flicked back towards the start of the section, ignoring the sick, leaden feeling in my stomach. I had to know. I found the start of the chapter.

CHAPTER TEN

I’ve made sure that I’ve chosen the seat directly opposite Sophie because I can’t seem to get enough of looking at her. Tim is examining the menu.

‘What would you like to drink, Bella? You’re not driving, are you? Let’s order a bottle of something.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ I said. ‘I feel like I’ve got a lot to celebrate.’

‘Like?’

‘Oh, meeting you, coming to the village, new friends, a new life. You . . . Sophie . . .’ the wine arrived. ‘Let’s drink to our future together.’

We clink our glasses and drink. ‘Now, young lady,’ he says. ‘I don’t mean to be a dull old dad, but don’t forget you’ve got to work on that essay of yours this afternoon.’

‘Boring . . .’ Sophie says. ‘It’s got to be handed in tomorrow,’ she explains to me. ‘It’s pretty much finished. I’ve just got to have a final read through. Don’t fret, Dad, it’s all cool.’

‘That’s fine. But you’ve got to get a decent mark. It’s important,’ he says to me, ‘for her degree. Otherwise,’ he warns, ‘you’ll be heading for a Desmond. A Desmond in Media Studies . . . kiss of death. Do you have any idea how many CVs cross my desk? Well the Desmonds never reach it. They go straight in the bin.’

‘A Desmond?’ I ask.

‘Tutu . . .’ Sophie fills in for me. ‘Dad thinks he’s so uber cool. You want me to get a Damian – don’t you, Dad?’

‘A first?’

‘Well done,’ Tim mouths to me and smiles. It gives me the warmest feeling, sitting with these two very special people. The man I love and Sophie. Soon we shall be one perfect unit, I remind myself, and my life will be complete.

‘Yep. But I won’t. I’m not that sad. I have a life too. And if I’m going to be any kind of social commentator . . .’

I watch with amusement as Tim raises his eyebrows, ‘. . . then I need to get out there, see what’s going on in the world. Don’t I, Bella?’

‘Sure,’ I nod. ‘In my day we didn’t do university. We served apprenticeships instead. Mine was more of a shopping and dry cleaning apprenticeship.’

Sophie appears confused but is too embarrassed to ask what I’m talking about. I guess she thinks she should know what a shopping and dry cleaning apprenticeship is. Bless.

‘Making myself indispensable to my editor. Passing her a tissue if she sneezed, monitoring her nails for chipped polish – all the vital things that a leading glossy editor needs.’

‘Really? And you didn’t mind?’

‘Of course I minded. She drove me round the bend with her petty demands. But I was ambitious and knew that if I played my cards right I’d be able to move up the food chain. We followed the laws of the jungle, like in any competitive business. If you want to be successful you’ve got to be ruthless. Do you think you could be ruthless, Sophie darling?’

‘Sure I could,’ she nods vigorously. I sense that she liked being called ‘darling’. ‘Definitely. Yes, I could.’

‘Steady, love. I hear what Bella’s saying, but we are in the twenty-first century, not the 1980s. I think we can all be a little bit more touchy-feely, can’t we?’ He looks at me. I wonder if he’s realized what he’s just said but – as my gaze rests on him for a moment or two longer than convention allows – if he didn’t before, he certainly does now. He shoots me a knowing glance and I smile back before turning my focus back to Sophie.