Quarter Past Two on a Wednesday Afternoon (3 page)

‘But you’re helping her, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, with the financial stuff. But she hasn’t even started on the house, and it’s becoming a bit of an albatross. It’s about time she … you know, moved on. Started to get over it.’

‘Well, it’s tough, losing a parent,’ Anna said, leaning against the sink. ‘
Both
parents, now. You wouldn’t know, would you?’ It sounded like an accusation. She didn’t know, either, but she did know absence: the bewilderment of it, the gulf it left.

Martin didn’t respond. He went to the fridge for a beer, an eloquent silence in the turn of his shoulders.

‘But … you think she’s taking advantage?’ Anna said. ‘Using this to keep hold of you?’

‘No.’ Martin gave a quick, impatient shake of his head. ‘That’s not what I mean.’

But maybe I’m right, Anna thought, knowing that Ruth’s devotion to Martin had somehow survived the break-up of their marriage. Her friend Bethan said that Ruth would soon meet someone new, and then Anna could stop worrying. But Anna wasn’t worried, only curious, seeing Ruth’s continuing love as a measure of Martin’s worth.

She rather liked the way Martin helped Ruth, not making a big deal about it – with her tax self-assessment forms, and part-exchanging her car. An only child, Ruth was now parentless, her father having died some years ago. Her mother, chronically ill, had been in and out of hospital for several months until being admitted to a hospice. Then, early in December, Ruth phoned with the news that her mother had died.

Anna couldn’t have faulted Martin’s conduct. He cancelled his meetings for the next two days, and went straight over. He knew how to register the death, and who else had to be informed; over the next fortnight he helped Ruth with the funeral arrangements, went through her mother’s savings and accounts, dealt with the solicitor. If Anna had any possible cause for complaint, it would have been on her own behalf. She felt excluded. Martin refused all her offers to go with him or to take Liam out for the day. He didn’t want Anna involved, not even to go to the funeral. ‘What’s the point? You didn’t know Bridget. Ruth wouldn’t want you there.’ He always sounded certain of what Ruth would and wouldn’t want. To Anna’s frequent questions he gave only the blandest of answers: ‘She’s OK … She’s coping … She’s taking it one day at a time,’ – as if life could proceed in any other fashion. A kind of morbid curiosity pulled Anna towards Ruth, like a driver reducing speed to stare at a crash on the opposite carriageway. Ruth had become glamorized by her closeness to a death.

But Martin’s sympathy, it seemed, was time-limited, now approaching its expiry date.

‘She’s upsetting Liam,’ he said now. ‘It’s not as if Bridget’s death wasn’t expected – it’s been on the cards for nearly a year.’

‘Still! It’s a shock. Expecting it can’t take that away. When it comes to it, we don’t know what death means.’

Martin rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand. ‘All I’m saying is she needs to pull herself together, for Liam’s sake.’

‘That’s not something she can
decide
,’ Anna said. ‘It’s not surprising Liam’s upset, either. He’s lost his gran. And Ruth’s on her own now, isn’t she? You could be more sympathetic.’

‘Well, thanks for that, Anna.’

What a range of nuances he could place on the mere pronouncing of her name! It could sound aloof and disapproving, as now; at other times, when his breath was warm on her neck, his hands roving, it was a caress, a declaration of love, or at least of lust. When he looked like this, wearing the shut-off expression Anna was beginning to know, it was hard to believe they could ever be intimate.

‘I’m only trying to have a conversation.’

‘Trying to put me in the wrong, more like. Let’s face it – whether I go to Ruth’s, or don’t go, you’ll take offence.’ He moved to the sink to rinse the tumbler under the tap; in his way, she made no effort to move aside. ‘At first you complained about me spending too much time with her. Now I’m being callous. Why not accept that it’s nothing to do with you, and let me get on with it?’

‘Of course it’s to do with me! And I
didn’t
complain, not once—’

‘Not in so many words. You didn’t need to,’ Martin said, in an
I know I’m right
tone that made her want to hit him. ‘Weren’t you going to eat? I’ve got papers to sort out for tomorrow.’

‘Fine! Don’t let me hold you up,’ Anna flung at him as he left the room. She stood undecided for a few moments before taking the over-browned stroganoff out of the oven. She no longer felt hungry, but obstinacy made her serve a portion for herself and sit at the table to eat. A hard lump in her throat made swallowing difficult. She could have wept if she’d wanted to: whether from sympathy for Ruth, self-pitying frustration with Martin or sheer petulance, she couldn’t tell.

Chapter Two

Anna walked along High Holborn, wrapped up against the cold in winter coat, scarf and beret, the heels of her boots tapping authoritatively with each stride. Catching a glimpse of her reflection in a full-length window, she took a moment to recognize herself – a tall woman dressed in black, with a frowning expression. She looked in dismay at this forbidding double – was that who she was? This other person had taken her over. She couldn’t see her own self looking out from inside.

She was meeting Bethan for lunch. Until Christmas, the Italian restaurant had set out tables and chairs under its awning on milder days, and patio heaters wastefully radiating warmth, but today there could be no question of anyone sitting outside. Bethan waved from their favourite table, in an alcove near the bar. She was dressed more casually than Anna, in a printed tunic over a long-sleeved T-shirt. Anna brightened, seeing her.

‘It’s all right, you’re not late. I got here early to read something through.’ Bethan had a pile of papers on the table in front of her; she gathered them into a folder, which she stashed in her saggy fabric bag.

‘I thought you did everything electronically these days?’ Anna said.

‘We do, but this author doesn’t. He isn’t even on line, can you imagine? We have to
phone
him, or send a letter. But he writes like a dream.’

‘Anyway, how are you?’ Anna settled herself next to Bethan on the cushioned bench. ‘You look great. Positively blooming.’

Bethan always did have a look of robust health: slightly plump, rosy-cheeked in what she disparagingly called her milkmaid look. ‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she said, smug and self-conscious. ‘I’ve got over the sickness now, and I can’t tell you how good that feels.’

‘So you’re doing all the right things? Laying off alcohol and coffee, going to pregnancy yoga?’

‘Course!’

Briskly the waiter took their order, geared to quick service for people on lunch breaks.

‘It’s a girl,’ Bethan said, spreading the fingers of one hand over her stomach. ‘I just know it’s a girl. Not that I mind, either way. But Cliff wants a girl. Actually, Anna, I want to ask you something. A huge favour.’

‘Oh, what?’

‘I – that is, we – we’d really like you to be godparent. Would you?’

‘Godparent? Me?’ Anna absorbed this. ‘Well, thanks, Beth. I’d love that. Only – what do you mean by the God bit? I don’t think I could make promises in a church without feeling like a hypocrite. Will it be a church christening?’

‘I did look at some websites, and you can have a naming ceremony, anywhere you like, and do it your own way. I know, I know. It’s all a bit early to start planning, and Cliff says I shouldn’t tempt fate, in case something goes wrong.’ Bethan held up both hands to show crossed fingers. ‘Anyway. By godparent, I mean as in supporter. Special auntie. Pagan parent, if you’d rather.’

‘In that case … but do you really think I’m, you know, reliable enough?’

‘You are now.’ Bethan gave her a teasing look. ‘I might not have thought so once.’

‘Then – thank you. I’d love to. I was hoping to be honorary auntie, anyway.’

‘Brilliant! Thanks so much!’ Bethan gave her a hug, then took out her mobile to text Cliff the news. The waiter brought their pasta dishes and salad; putting her phone away, Bethan asked, ‘How about you? How’s work? How’s Martin?’ She began to eat hungrily.

Anna shrugged. ‘Everything’s fine, thanks.’

‘What about you two? Do you think you’ll, you know, have children?’

‘You sound like my mum,’ said Anna, unfairly, as her mother had never given such a hint.

‘Still! You’re thirty-three. Biological clock ticking.’

It always jolted Anna to remember that she had reached such an age; surely she ought to feel adult by now, responsible, in control of her life.

‘Martin’s already got the boys,’ she said.

‘Yes, but you?’

‘Haven’t really thought.’

Bethan made a
puh
face. ‘You expect me to believe that? You’ve never so much as thought about having a baby?’

‘I don’t want to be pushed into anything, that’s all.’

‘Who’s pushing?’

‘No one. Just – you know – people’s expectations.’ Anna filled Bethan’s glass with mineral water. ‘Yours, now,’ she added lightly. ‘Like it’s the obvious next thing to do.’

Bethan shrugged. ‘Only asking. What about the job? How’s that working out?’

‘Fine, thanks. Keeps me off the streets.’

‘You don’t sound keen. You’re not chucking it in, are you?’

‘It’s only a trial period. I’m not sure I want to stay there for ever. I quite like the work. I like houses, property. I like matching people to homes, or dreaming about what I’d do if I had the money. It’s just – just I don’t like feeling tied down.’

‘But why think of it like that?’ said Bethan. ‘You’ve got a lovely man, a nice flat, and now you can have a good job as well. All this flitting from one thing to another – wouldn’t it be more rewarding to stick at something?’

‘Beth! You’re definitely turning into my mum.’

Bethan sagged into her seat in an attitude of surrender. ‘It’s only common sense. What’s the problem? No one’s asking you to sign up for life, are they? You haven’t found a vocation, that’s your problem.’

‘But how many people do?’ Anna said. ‘What’s yours – massaging the egos of pushy authors?’

Bethan giggled. ‘I won’t mind taking a break, that’s for sure. Anyway. How was your weekend?’

Anna told her about the decorating, Martin’s visit to Ruth, his late return.

‘Hmm.’ Bethan lowered her eyebrows. ‘You’re not thinking they’re—?’

‘No! Definitely not.’

‘It’s just that you mentioned it. I asked about your weekend and that’s what you chose to tell me.’

‘It’s not what you’re imagining,’ said Anna. ‘I
like
Ruth. She and I could easily be friends.’

Bethan gave her a comically sceptical look.

‘Why not?’ Anna countered. ‘If it wasn’t for Martin in the way.’

‘Yeah, right. You’d be soulmates.’

The waiter came for their plates; Bethan turned down coffee, but Anna looked at her watch, and ordered an Americano.

‘Martin’s the one I feel sorry for,’ Bethan said. ‘He’s afraid you’ll start comparing notes.’

‘Typical man, that’d be. Assuming we’d have nothing else to talk about.’

‘She did seem nice,’ said Bethan; she had met Ruth recently at Martin’s fortieth birthday party.

‘Sister substitute, obviously. Is that what you’re thinking?’

‘Yes. I wasn’t going to say.’

No. No one ever did say. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement that Rose’s name must never be mentioned. Anna had come closer than usual to breaking the rule.

Bethan looked at her sidelong, tilting her head. ‘You seem a bit …’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Unsettled.’

Anna made herself smile, trying to regain the celebratory tone they’d started with. ‘Sorry. I don’t know why. Except it’s not because I want a baby, and
definitely
not because I think Martin’s sleeping with Ruth. Let’s not get sidetracked. Honestly, Beth, I’m thrilled you asked me to be godparent. Will you give me a crash course?’

‘We’ll talk more, sometime soon.’ Bethan glanced up at the clock. ‘I’d better get back. Publicity meeting at two-thirty.’

Anna downed her coffee and summoned a waiter to settle the bill. Outside on the pavement she and Bethan stood for a moment, buttoning their coats, pulling on gloves.

‘I’ll text you. Take care,’ said Bethan, as they hugged.

‘And you! Great to see you. Look after yourself.’

Bethan walked away quickly in the direction of Bloomsbury, a jaunty figure in her purple tights, boots and butcher-boy cap. Anna watched her go, wishing she had Bethan’s gift for happiness. It looked so easy, for those who had the knack.

Years ago, when they were children, Rose showed Anna the Seven Sisters.

Standing by the back door, Anna was shivering so much that her teeth hurt; she could have made herself stop, but it added to the excitement of being out in the dark. Night-time transformed the garden into a strange, unknown place, even though indoors was only a few steps away, with Mum and Dad watching TV. As long as she could reach back and touch the house wall, she’d be safe.

They had come out to look for a hedgehog that sometimes scuttled across the lawn, nosing its way to the dish of cat-food Rose put out for it. Anna hugged herself, peering into the stalky, spidery place beside the shed. Her eyes sought the thicker patch of darkness that might, if she willed it hard enough, clump itself into a hedgehog and trundle over the grass as if on wheels. It gave her a shivery thrill to think of other lives so close to her own, of creatures huddled in darkness, waiting for nightfall, their time for creeping out. Then Rose, distracted from hedgehogs, called, ‘Look, look at the stars! There’s the Plough, and the Pole Star. And the Seven Sisters – how many can you see?’