“And Jess?” Lucas asked. “How is she?”
At the sink, midway through pouring the boiling water, I stiffened.
He must have noticed. He waited a moment, then repeated his question.
I turned. “Lucas, I’m sorry. I can’t—”
He spoke again in the same calm tone. “Is she still writing her autobiography?”
I knew that piece of news about Jess years earlier had amused him. Jess had been writing her life story—in diary form—for the past six years, since she was sixteen years old. She’d always been convinced she’d be a musical theater star one day. “I’ll be too busy when I’m famous to write anything, so I’m doing it now to save time,” she’d told us all. She’d never been secretive about it either. Other teenage girls probably hid their diaries from their families. Jess did formal readings from hers. They were written as she spoke, in a stream of consciousness. The title was the first line of each day’s diary entry:
Hi, it’s Jess!
“I don’t know,” I said, not looking at him. It was the truth. I had no idea where Jess was or what she was doing. I’d asked my mother not to mention her. She’d eventually, reluctantly, agreed.
Lucas didn’t ask any more questions about her. Another reason to love him. An aunt might have kept on at me, as my mother had, many times.
Please, Ella, she’s your little sister. Your family. You have to find a way to forgive her. You have to be able to move on somehow.
But how could I move on? Where was there for me to go?
There was one other person for Lucas to ask about. As I brought over the tea, I waited for him to mention Aidan. He didn’t. Not yet. But he would, I knew. I could almost feel Aidan’s presence in the kitchen between us. We’d met for the first time in here.
Lucas took a sip, pulled a face and put down his cup. “Ella, it’s terrible. The cup’s too clean.”
I swatted his arm affectionately, glad of the change in topic. Our conversation turned to general subjects, my flight, the London weather, his own work. Yes, he was very busy, as always, he told me. Yes, the house was still full of lodgers. Four at present, with a waiting list. Yes, they were all double-jobbing: PhD students by day, tutors by night. Geniuses in the making, all four of them.
One was a literature student, he said. “You’ll like her. Very cheerful girl. She has the most extraordinary hair. Bright pink one week, blue the next. You’ll have lots in common too, books, words, grammar—”
It wasn’t the time to tell him I’d given up editing. “She sounds great,” I said.
“And you and work, Ella? Any plans yet?”
It didn’t matter that I’d just stepped off a long flight. Lucas was always to the point like this. Another thing I loved about him. “No, not yet. I’ll register with some temp agencies tomorrow.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t?”
“Come and work for me again. You already know I pay well. Promptly too.”
“You don’t need to pay me. As soon as I finish this tea, I’m going to scrub this place from top to bottom as a service to society.”
He smiled. “That’s not the kind of work I meant. And that’s not why I asked you to come to see me.” He stood up, walked across the room and shut the door. When he returned and sat down opposite me, his expression was serious.
“Ella, I need your help.”
From: Charlie Baum
To: undisclosed recipients
Subject: It’s Been a Noisy Week in Boston
The latest report from the Baum trenches is as follows:
Sophie (10): Planning eleventh birthday party. Still. The invite list has changed twenty times. She’s having more fun than a nightclub doorman.
Ed (8): Maths homework last night. He counted all the way to 100 and on to 200 and beyond. He reached 253 and sighed. “Counting never stops, does it?”
Reilly (6): Teacher reported discussion in class today about religious ceremonies around the world. She asked why Easter is celebrated. Reilly’s answer: “Jesus died at Easter, right? And he was on a cross. And the cross was made of wood. And the wood was brown. And chocolate is brown. So that’s why we eat chocolate. And the reason the chocolate is given out by the Easter Bunny and we have chocolate bunnies is because Jesus was up on the cross, right? And below him, on the ground, running around everywhere, were rabbits. Lots and lots of rabbits.”
It appears Lucy and I may need to rethink our “no religious education” policy.
Tim (4): Bathtime. Emptied entire contents of Lucy’s henna shampoo into water while my back was turned for seconds. We now have one very brown son.
Lucy (36): Reaching new levels of overtime. Tired. Tired but happy. I hope.
Charlie (36): Current weight ninety-five kilos. Diet producing extraordinary results of an invisible nature. Meals cooked for the family this week: spaghetti Bolognese, spaghetti carbonara, pizza, boeuf bourguignon. Meals eaten by cook this week: salad, salad, salad, salad. Odds on cook falling asleep in next salad he is forced to eat: excellent.
Snip the cat (kitten age): Slept, played, slept, chased fly. Caught one mouse. Ate one mouse, excluding tail. Tail left on kitchen table. Children still retching. Father also.
Until next time, everyone please stay sane.
Charlie xx
From: Charlie Baum
To: Lucy Baum
Subject: re: Modern Couples
Yes, aren’t we modern, sending each other e-mail rather than leaving notes on the fridge? Thank you for your probing questions. Yes, I remembered Reilly’s doctor’s appointment, tomorrow at four p.m. Yes, I will book Sophie in for an eye test. I wonder will she be able to find her own way there? (Hahaha. It
was
my sense of humor that first attracted you to me, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it??)
Two questions for you now:
Q1. Do you know how much I love you?
Answer: Lots.
Q2. Do I appreciate how hard you work?
Answer: Yes, I do.
See you tonight. I’ll be the fat guy in the kitchen with all the kids.
C xx
From: Charlie Baum
To: Ella O’Hanlon
Subject: You and flight
Dear Ellamentary,
How was the flight? How is London? How is Lucas? Thinking of you.
Charlemagne
xx
From: Charlie Baum
To: Lucas Fox
Subject: Ella
Thanks for the update. Yes, it’s definitely worth a try. Good luck.
C
From: Charlie Baum
To: Aidan O’Hanlon
Subject: Next week
Aidan, I’ll take the eleven a.m. train, arriving Washington five thirty p.m. See you at the hotel bar at six? My cell is +1 9173236740.
Charlie
D
ear Diary,
Hi, it’s Jess!
What an incredible day it’s been! I’m sure that in years to come I’ll look back at my life and be able to pinpoint today as the day it all really began. It had been a reasonably normal day (if you can call any day of my crazy life normal!!). I’d gone to the studio with Mum and Dad. Mum was taping the last of her new series of
MerryMakers
. (It really is such a clever name for a fun cooking show, isn’t it?? Merry, as in short for Meredith, her name, and she makes things to eat!!) And it was so exciting. They’d given me another cameo appearance, just at the end as usual, but it was a really funny one. Mum and I had written it together last week. We taped it—in one take, as usual. That’s one of the reasons the director loves me so much, he told me. He said he’s worked with other girls my age (twenty-two, but I’m nearly twenty-three) and they were nightmares but I was a DREAM! So anyway, I was sitting in the green room watching clips from musicals on my iPhone when Mum came out and said, “Sorry, Jess, we need to tape that segment again.”
“But I did it perfectly,” I said.
“I know, darling, but there was a technical hitch—the sound dropped out. Can you come and do it again?”
So I went back onto the set. It was a skit at the end of the cooking segment, as usual. Mum had joked and cooked her way through a few recipes and then I had to turn up, make a few jokes myself and have a taste. So we went through it all again, taking the cake out of the oven, etc. etc.—luckily Mum’s assistant had made several versions of the cake in question, as I really had eaten a slice of the cake in my first take! We ran through all the lines again too.
“Hi, Mum!”
“Hi, darling!”
“Wow, that smells good. What is it?”
“My perfume!” Hahaha from the canned laughter. Then me in close-up making a show of biting into the cake and really enjoying the taste of it. We’d had a letter the previous week complaining that I was being made to be too sexy. “Oh,
der
,” as I said to Mum. That was the whole idea of me being on the program. Mum wore her tight tops and said saucy things (food joke!!—saucy as in cooking sauces and she’s a TV chef!) to lure in the older guy viewers. I was there to bring in the younger guys. It wasn’t exploitation. It was good business. And also, the recipes work and they are nutritionally sound.
Anyway, I was there, doing the take again, licking the cream off the cake, and I took a bite and nearly choked. There was something inside the cake. A small envelope. What the
heck
, I said. (I would have said “what the
you-know-what
” but we still aim for family ratings.) “Stop tape!” I called as I took the envelope out of my mouth and wiped off the cream. I looked at Mum. She was grinning. Dad stepped in from the side of the set. He had a big smile on his face too. The camera guys were laughing as well. I opened the envelope. Inside, all folded up, was a voucher for a plane ticket. A ticket to LONDON!!!!!!!!!!!!!
“Surprise!” a voice sounded over the studio PA. It was the director from upstairs. I reckon my squeal nearly burst the studio lights!
I’d been begging and begging Mum and Dad for my airfare to London for YEARS. Just give me a CHANCE to make it on the West End, I’d said. I’m the right age. I’ve been doing all the right classes for years. I’ve been in youth theater since I was a little kid and done every performance class possible, tap and mime and singing and even interpretative dance. I’d been offered a couple of professional chorus roles in the past few months but I’d turned them down. They would have meant giving up work on Mum’s show and what was the point? To do a six-week run in Melbourne or Sydney or Adelaide or Canberra, backwaters as far as musical theater is concerned. The West End (and Broadway of course!!) is where it’s at. I have an EU passport courtesy of my German dad, so it makes sense to go to Europe—or, more specifically, London—first. That’s how I always put my argument. But Mum and Dad kept saying I was too young, it was too soon, blah blah blah, you’d be there on your own, in a big strange city. I wouldn’t be on my own. As soon as I get a role, the theater company would be my family.
“Why now?” I asked when we were on our way home. “What changed your minds?”
“Because we won’t be far away ourselves,” Mum said.
And I said, “You’re coming to London too?” To be honest, Diary, the idea of it appalled me!! How would I get to live my dream if I had to be home early each night to stop Mum and Dad from worrying? On the bright side, if they were there in London too, they’d be paying for all my food and rent, so I quickly hid my dismay and saw the sunny side of it (another of my positive personality traits, according to Mum). “Great!” I said, using my best acting skills. “We can all live together.”
“Oh, aren’t you a sweetie,” Mum said. “I thought you’d hate it if we were there too.”
That will teach me to wear my feelings on my face!
Before I had to deny it, she went on. It turned out she meant that she and Dad would be near me in Europe, not London, and not the whole time, just for a few weeks, and not until later in the year. They’d got word that the cable channel had given the green light to a new series of
MerryMakers
. Basically it would be Mum wisecracking her way around Europe, cooking national dishes, but on the ground rather than in a studio. She was really excited about it, and started listing off all the places they’d be going: Spain, France, Italy. . . . “We’ll only ever be a few hours from you, darling, and if you’re not working yourself, you can fly in to us for your cameos as well. Isn’t it perfect!”
I was only half listening by that stage, to tell you the truth. I’d already taken out my iPhone and started Googling info on the current season of West End musicals and any calls for auditions. Also, of COURSE I’d be working by then and I’d hardly give up a season on the West End to play a cameo on Mum’s series, even though it was very nice of her to offer, of course.
“You’ll give me the money I need to set myself up, won’t you?” I suddenly asked. It came out a bit bluntly, I know, but the fact was that even though I still lived at home and got paid to do Mum’s show (pretty well too!!!), I didn’t have any savings, and one thing I had heard many times from my singing and dance teachers was that London is very expensive.
“Of course, darling,” Dad said. “We will be your devils.”
It took a while to work out he meant my angels, as in my theatrical sponsors. Dad’s English is very good (apart from his problem with the letter
r
, which he says as
v
sometimes, but that’s a kind of speech-impediment thing, not because of his being German, and I think it’s cute anyway) but it does let him down sometimes. So we had a great chat for the rest of the drive home about all the ways he and Mum could support me. It’s SO exciting!! I’m going to leave as soon as I can, I’ve decided. No point hanging around wasting time in Australia when the real theater world awaits in London.
So, what a great day! In a few weeks’ time (maybe more, maybe less, it will depend on flight availability, Dad says—he’s going to take care of all of that for me too, thank you, Dad!!!!!!!), look out, West End. Here comes Jessica Baum!
Love till next time!!
Jess xxxxoooo
I
t was after lunch by the time I came down for breakfast. Outside, London was bathed in soft February mist. Inside, the house was quiet and calm. Perhaps it was the mess acting as a kind of insulation. I checked in all the downstairs rooms. Empty. I stood on the first landing again and listened. No sound from any of the other bedrooms. Everyone must have gone to their lectures or tutoring jobs. I had the house to myself. I was glad of it—for now, at least.
I’d had one of the longest, deepest sleeps I could remember having. Perhaps that was all I should have been doing over the past twenty months to stop the night horrors. Kept myself permanently jet-lagged.
After our conversation the previous day, after I said I’d think about his job offer, Lucas showed me to the bedroom on the second floor that he knew was my favorite. It was luck that it happened to be empty. If my contract in Australia had ended a week earlier or a week later, I might have had to book into a local hotel or sleep on a mattress on the attic floor.
“Are you hungry, Ella? I’m sure there’s probably something in one of the cupboards.”
I smiled. Lucas never had a clue whether there was food in the house or not. On the positive side, he did always have plenty of good-quality stationery. “I’m fine, Lucas; thanks. And you don’t need to look after me. I’m sure you’ve got work to do.”
There was just a brief hesitation. “Actually, I am in the middle of an important paper.”
Again, I felt the relief of being in his company. All the space I needed, no pressure to talk. “I can look after myself, I promise.”
“Make yourself at home. There are spare keys on the hall table. And there’s no rush about the job. Take your time thinking it over. The room is yours for as long as you want it, whether you take up my offer or not.” He stood there for a moment. “You’ve got your laptop with you?”
I nodded.
“There’s Wi-Fi throughout the house. High-speed. Free too.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Lucas.”
“Welcome back, Ella,” he said, then quietly left the room.
I showered, changed and went outside. I walked all the way down Lucas’s street, across Bayswater Road and into Hyde Park. I needed to stretch my limbs, breathe fresh air and try to let it sink in that I was now in London, that I wasn’t in Margaret River or Australia anymore.
The last time I had taken this path had been with Aidan. We’d come here for a final walk before we left for Australia. We’d talked about all we had to look forward to, his new job, our wedding in a few months’ time, a new city to get to know. How we’d be going from winter to summer. We’d felt so lucky, so—
Don’t.
Observe.
Distract.
I concentrated. I looked around me. I made a mental list of the most English things I could see. Squirrels. Chestnut trees. Black taxis and red double-decker buses visible through the railings. People in scarves, boots and hats, in February . . .
I kept walking, along the path toward Marble Arch. As I came out onto Oxford Street, the crowds grew around me: tourists, shoppers, office workers, women in full burqa, teenagers in miniskirts. I passed clothes shops, department stores, newspaper sellers tidying piles of the
Times
, the
Guardian
and other papers, tourist shops selling Union Jack mugs and souvenirs of the royal wedding. I walked as far as Regent Street, up one side and down the other. Back at Marble Arch, I noticed the cinema. I went in and bought a ticket for the next film showing. I didn’t mind what it was. I was just happy to have something to distract my thoughts.
It was dark by the time I returned to Lucas’s house. I let myself in, hoping I wouldn’t meet any of the lodgers yet. I didn’t feel ready. The door to Lucas’s withdrawing room on the ground floor was shut, his signal that he was reading or marking papers. I quietly went up the stairs and got to my room without seeing anyone. I fell asleep easily, for once.
• • •
The kitchen was empty, the dirty dishes on the table proof that Lucas and the tutors had been and gone. I put on some coffee, then went upstairs to fetch my laptop. The door to the bedroom on the first landing was open. I didn’t look too closely. It had been Aidan’s room when we both lived here. If I thought of Aidan, I would think of Felix, and if I thought of Felix—
Back in the kitchen, I poured a coffee and set up my laptop. I was online in minutes. Lucas was right—there was excellent Wi-Fi in the house.
There were two e-mail messages from Charlie. One was his family report—
It’s Been a Noisy Week in Boston
in the subject line. As usual, I moved it without reading it into the folder marked
Charlie
. I opened the second one, subject
You and flight
, read it, then quickly typed a reply.
Dear Charleston.
Since we were kids, we’d played around with each other’s names for fun. Over the years he’d called me everything from Ellaphant, Ellavator, Ellaquent. . . .
Thanks for your e-mail. Yes, I’m here safe and sound with Lucas.
I did a quick calculation of the time difference. Too early in Boston for Charlie to be online. But he’d worry if that was all I said; I knew that.
He’s great, as ever. Very welcoming, as ever.
A new e-mail came in as I decided what to write next. It was from my mother’s account. I clicked on it. It wasn’t from Mum herself. It was a general mailout from one of her production staff.
Missed out on
MerryMakers
this week?? Fear not! All the highlights are here, and remember, whatever you do and whenever you can—eat, drink and be merry!
I wondered whether I was the only daughter in the world who kept up with her mother’s whereabouts via group e-mail. I moved that into my
For later
folder and went back to my e-mail to Charlie.
Lucas has made me an interesting job offer. I’m thinking about it. I’ll keep you posted.
Lots of love for now,
E xxx
The Ella of old wouldn’t have signed off like that or written such a brief e-mail. I’d have asked him about each of his four children in turn, asked about Lucy, wanted all the family stories and photographs. I’d have been planning a visit too. Before . . . before everything, I’d visited Boston as often as I could afford it. I loved seeing Charlie. I loved the chaos of his house and life. I loved seeing him so happy with Lucy. I loved seeing him with his children, the way they clambered all over him, how patient he was with them, the fun he brought into their lives, the love they had for him and he had for them—
Do something else.
Quickly.
I finished my coffee and ate a small bowl of cereal. I didn’t eat much these days. I’d lost my appetite that day and it had never really come back. I’d lost interest in everything except wishing and thinking and—
Keep busy.
I washed the dishes. There were a lot of them. The table was covered in newspapers and crumbs as well. Possibly that was one of Lucas’s criteria before inviting any of his tutors to come to live and work with him. I imagined the ad pinned up at the university:
Must be clever, have a gift for teaching and love making a mess.
I cleaned out the fridge. I swept the kitchen floor. I moved into the hall and swept that too. Next was Lucas’s withdrawing room. It was hard to know where to start. I knew from experience not to touch any of the surfaces. Not that I could see any of the surfaces. They were all covered in books, papers, magazines. . . . I cleaned out the fire and emptied the ashes into the almost-full bucket. As I stood and turned around, I saw it. I hadn’t noticed it the night before, too jet-lagged or sitting in the wrong seat. I dropped the bucket. Ashes went everywhere. I ignored them and walked toward the wall, holding my breath.
It was a photographic shrine to Felix.
Every photo I’d sent Lucas was here on the wall, framed. Me with Felix, minutes after he was born. Aidan with Felix. The three of us together. Felix in his Babygro. Laughing Felix. Crying Felix. Sleeping Felix. Crawling Felix. Aidan and I laughing together at him, making him wave at the camera, wave to Great-uncle Lucas in London. Everywhere I looked, there was my Felix’s face, that beautiful face staring out at me, his blue-green eyes, his big, beautiful smile—the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t bear to look, but I couldn’t look away. Felix in the bath. Felix on a swing. Felix with Mum, with Walter. With Jess. There was a framed trio of photos of Felix with Charlie, the two of them laughing in one shot, yawning in another and, finally, both sleeping. Felix had loved sleeping on Charlie’s belly. “It’s a hammock built for kids,” Charlie had said, patting it proudly. There was photo after photo of Aidan and Felix together, all taken by me. Aidan and Felix nose to nose. Aidan and Felix gazing up at the camera, the likeness astonishing, the same-shaped face, steady gaze, same-colored eyes. Felix on Aidan’s shoulders. Felix reading
Great Expectations
, Aidan’s hands clearly in shot, holding the book in place. Felix in a green jumpsuit on Aidan’s lap, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day. Felix and Aidan both wearing Santa hats, for Felix’s first Christmas.
The punch came then. The hurt. He’d had only two Christmases.
Stop.
Quick.
Keep busy.
I swept up the spilled ash, with my back turned to the photos, wishing I hadn’t seen them, wishing they weren’t there.
Think of something else.
Charlie. Think of Charlie. Get out of this room and think about Charlie instead. I made it up the stairs, breathing deeply, thankful I had the house to myself.
Think of Charlie, not Felix.
Breathe.
Breathe.
I sat on my bed and I breathed, and I clenched my fists and breathed some more, forcing my thoughts in another direction. Toward Charlie.
Quickly.
Charlie was my safe haven. In the early months, when there seemed only to be sounds of terror in my mind, sounds of anguish—or even worse, silence, bleakness, like a whiteout in my mind—thinking of Charlie would give me some respite, even just for a moment.
Quickly.
Fill your head with Charlie, I told myself. Go back to when you met him. Think of him. Not Felix. Not Felix, or Aidan. Or Jess. Only Charlie. Go back to the start. Right back.
Quickly.