These Days of Ours (14 page)

‘Anyway, Julian, support works both ways. If you’d only tell me a little more about—’

‘Good God, darling, I’d bore you to death.’

Persevering, Kate leaned on a wonky gazebo and said, ‘For example, why not tell me what was said at that meeting with your investors yesterday?’

‘How’d you know about that?’ Julian couldn’t camouflage his irritation.

‘Because you wander about the apartment talking very very loudly into your phone, you twit.’ She waited. ‘So?’

‘So, it was the usual panicking, the usual accusations. Things are tough for everybody but they know I’m on top of the situation. Or they should. I told them to back off.’

‘You said you’ve been here before. Where’s
here
?’ Kate had felt tremors; she needed to know if the aftershock could reach the penthouse.

‘I can’t discuss serious matters while your cousin’s belting out r’n’b in the background, darling.’

‘How about when I get home? Please? Will you stay up?’

‘Kate, you’ll be tipsy and knackered and full of stories about what A said to B and who got off with C. Don’t worry that pretty little head, yeah?’

Julian didn’t know about Kate’s Running Away account. That had to remain safely hidden from the peril she could smell on the wind. She’d stand shoulder to shoulder with Julian,
through thick and thin, but nothing could endanger that money.

Processing the thoughts crowding her ‘pretty little head’, Kate by-passed the heaving epicentre of the party and crept up the stairs. In the spare room, she found what she was
after.

On the bed, Flo lay on her back, arms flung out, face tilted and her cherub mouth slightly open. At eighteen months she was a more fully realised version of her baby self. The flossy wisps of
hair had settled into a custard-coloured bob and her chubby limbs had lengthened. Kate could look at her all day, every day and never find a single fault.

Coming up behind her, Charlie whispered, ‘She’s getting big, isn’t she?’

‘She’ll be married soon. Who has she come as?’ Kate took in the tiny jeans and a sequin top which was obviously cut down from an adult garment.

‘Who do you think Flo’s heroine is?’ asked Charlie. ‘Sorry, I mean who do you think her effing heroine is?’ Being Bob Geldof for the night was proving difficult:
since his daughter came along Charlie had been careful
not
to swear.

‘Ah, I get it!’ Kate rocked with laughter. ‘It’s you!’ She pointed at Becca, hovering over the child, rearranging her the way mums do. ‘Flo’s heroine is
her mummy.’

‘Flo’s mummy was in charge of Flo’s costume ergo . . .’ Charlie’s hair was losing its Geldof disarray. It was tidy hair that wanted to lie in a sleek cap, the way
Flo’s did.

‘Be honest, Kate.’ Charlie sat on the rug and Kate joined him. ‘Julian just didn’t want to come, did he?’ All three of them had escaped the action with a bottle of
something cold.

‘It’s obvious.’ Becca swatted at the ponytail that seemed constantly in her face. ‘They had a row on the way and he wouldn’t come in. Now he’s pouting at
home, grizzling about being neglected.’ She wobbled on the stilt heels no self-respecting Madonna clone can be without. ‘I know Julian pret-ty well, don’t forget.’

Feeling Charlie squirm beside her, Kate wished Becca wouldn’t mention their partner-swap so casually. Neither she nor the men ever referred to it.

‘I don’t blame him, not really.’ Kate refused to demonise her partner.

‘He’s doing his best,’ said Charlie.

‘In what way?’ Becca’s voice went shrill. ‘It’s Kate’s poor dad who’s doing his best, fighting like a hero. We should all have come dressed as Uncle
John tonight!’

‘That,’ said Kate with feeling, ‘would make for a very strange fancy dress party. Everybody in fair isles and comfortable slacks.’ She’d often heard Becca refer to
Dad’s ‘battle’ with cancer: it helped Becca to see it that way, so Kate had never challenged it. Like Mum, Becca never countenanced Dad’s death:
death
, they seemed to
believe,
happens to other people.

Charlie was able to follow Kate to that place in her head where she was quietly preparing for both the practical issues and the gaping Dad-shaped hole in their lives. They even managed to joke,
gently, about it. It helped her at a time when very little could. Kate said, ‘I don’t blame Julian getting bored of it all every so often. Illness is repetitive and
depressing.’

‘Tough! Mind you,’ said Becca, ‘you might consider not talking so much about the orphanage. That,’ she said sagely, ‘
is
boring.’

Taking that on the chin, Kate warned her it was about to get even more boring. ‘Dad doesn’t know it yet, but we’re running away to China together.’ She relished their
astonishment.

Spending more time with her father meant helping him with many tasks; Kate refused to call this
putting his affairs in order
but she knew that was how Dad saw it. One of the jobs she
busied herself with – it was imperative that she feel useful – was to collate the correspondence between her father and Jia Tang, the founder of Yulan House.

She’d laid out eleven years of handwritten notes and printed emails in front of her dad. Despite her immunity to the virtues of the orphanage, Kate had found herself becoming engrossed as
they sorted them together, quoting lines here and there. She liked the man who wrote those letters; they were thoughtful, philosophical,
smart
.

And Jia Tang was his equal. The warm friendship had risen out of the written word in front of her like a hologram. She’d knelt back on her heels, laughing. ‘Maybe you should have
married
her
, eh, Dad?’

He hadn’t laughed. Instead, Dad had applied the seldom used full version of her name. ‘Not everything in life is a joke, Catherine.’

That’s when Kate had decided that, come what may, Dad and Jia Tang were going to meet. They were going to clasp hands.
It’ll give him something to live for.

In the here and now of the spare room, Becca and Charlie were silent. Actively silent, as if there was much they could say but they chose not to.

‘I’ve planned the whole trip. It’s costing a fortune. We’ll travel first class, with help at every stage. I’ve taken out the most comprehensive insurance
imaginable. The lady who runs Yulan House has insisted we stay with her and— what?’ She looked from Charlie to Becca, belatedly grasping their disapproval.

‘Kate,’ said Charlie, ‘your dad’s not well enough to do all that.’ He said it sadly, as if breaking something to her.

‘Obviously not at the moment.’ Kate smiled at their naivety. ‘But he’ll brighten up. Look,’ she said, as the others passed worried glances, ‘I’m not
stupid. It’s not as if Dad’s going to be leaping around like a deer. I know he’s changed for good. And I know . . .’ She stumbled. However many times she faced this fact it
never seemed to diminish. ‘I know, realistically, he hasn’t got that long left. But he has good periods and bad periods and as soon as he rallies I’m poised to book the
flights.’

‘Isn’t it a tiny bit ambitious?’ said Charlie.

‘You’ve gone stark staring mad,’ said Becca.
Shtark shtaring
; she was drunker than Kate had thought.

‘This is Dad’s dream. His
dream
.’ Kate emphasised the word. ‘He’s done so much for Yulan House, put so much energy and imagination and even cash into it over
the years. He deserves this.’ She was baffled by their reaction. She’d envisaged whooping and hugging. ‘I won’t let him die without seeing Yulan House. I
can’t.’

Charlie sent Becca a warning look, accompanied by a slight shake of his shaggy Geldof hair.

Becca said, ‘Let’s talk about this tomorrow.’ She stood, stretched, and adjusted her conical breasts. ‘Look after the fruit of my loins, you two. I have to
sing
.’ She bounded out of the room and almost fell down the stairs in her keenness to return to the karaoke machine.

On the bed Flo stirred and grumbled. She was a gentle child, happiest in somebody’s arms, not an adventurer. A little spoiled perhaps, but when Kate peeked at the strawberries and cream
face on the pile of coats she thought
Of course we spoil her: she’s adorable.

When Flo settled down again, Kate and Charlie sat with their backs against the bed in the semi-darkness.

‘In a way,’ said Charlie, ‘I’m glad Julian didn’t come tonight.’

‘That’s not very nice.’ Kate butted shoulders with him.

‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m fond of the guy.’ That, Kate knew, wasn’t quite true. Charlie and Julian were meshed together, like family: you’re not required to
like your family. ‘But I don’t miss the sneering. My parents-in-law and Julian don’t agree on what makes a good party.’

‘He’s working on the sneering thing.’ This was a safe place, a circle of trust where both Kate and Charlie could lovingly diss their other halves, in the knowledge that it
wouldn’t be repeated, or inflated. ‘After years of practice, he can confront Mum’s musical cake slice without wincing.’

Charlie laughed. He, too, loathed that cake slice.

All lovers need to let off steam
, thought Kate, feeling a warm buzz of satisfaction at making Charlie hoot. A tendril of guilt crawled over her but she brushed it away. If wives
can’t whinge a little about their husbands then the pressure builds up until eventually they blow. Becca’s tendency to overstate –
Julian said WHAT? –
rendered her
useless for gentle grousing. Sane, humane Charlie was perfect. ‘What are you working on?’

No point asking about the novel. It had been months since he mentioned it.

‘At present I’m penning a campaign for a leading brand of feminine hygiene products.’ Charlie remembered his fancy dress costume. ‘I mean effing feminine sodding hygiene
feckin’ products.’ He glanced neurotically at his daughter but she was asleep.

‘Julian goes all funny if he finds a stray tampon. As if it might bite him.’

‘I’ve got over that. My desk at work is covered in sanitary towels.’

‘Nice image.’

‘The budget’s astronomical. We’ve got an award winning lighting guy, a top UK art director and the producer’s booked a household name to do the voiceover. But,
it’ll still end up being two birds frolicking on a beach with a kite.’

‘You daren’t make it realistic.’ Kate sketched a scene with her hands. ‘Imagine it. A woman, her face pale and her hair greasy, bent double and shouting at her
boyfriend.’

‘How did we both end up in such dumb jobs?’ Charlie ignored Kate’s affronted yip. ‘I sit up all night writing scripts to make people wander into supermarkets and put a
specific product in their baskets. You sell paper hats and party horns and . . . and . . .’

‘And Donald Duck masks,’ said Kate, helpfully. The truth was more complex than Charlie admitted. They both worked hard and Kate derived a simple, real pleasure from handing over a
bag full of trifles. ‘Don’t knock it. It pays the bills.’ She wondered if, deep down, Charlie was proud of his ‘silly job’ the way she was proud of her shops.

‘Has Becca told you her latest scheme?’

‘The flat in town? Yup. ’Fraid so.’

‘She talks about it as if it’s essential. As if everybody has a country house and a
pied à terre
.’

From long phone calls at late hours Kate knew how lonely Becca felt in the cottage when Charlie stayed over in town, burning the midnight oil for some entitled client.

Charlie said, ‘She says we can use it for date nights.’ He widened his eyes. ‘
Date nights.
Aren’t they something made up by women’s magazines?’

‘Probably.’

‘Becca says she wants to be like you and Julian. Having slap up meals in the hot new restaurants.’ Charlie looked sideways at Kate. ‘Is that what you do?’

‘In a word, no.’ Kate was accustomed to Becca’s grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side mentality. ‘Last night I knocked up cheese on toast for us both.’ She’d
carefully carved around the jade dots of mould on the cheddar.

Neither of them pointed out it had been Becca’s decision to move to the country, just like neither of them had pointed out it was her ‘heart’s desire’ to have a dog when
she whined about exercising poor over-bred Jaffa. Kate asked, ‘Can you afford to buy another property?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘As soon as I grow a money tree out of my bum.’

Her chuckle died on her lips. ‘Oh good God. Do you know where we are?’

Puzzled, Charlie said, ‘Marjorie’s spare room.’ Realisation dawned. ‘Christ. Is this the bed we—’

‘Yup.’

Their shoulders sprang up to their ears as embarrassment and nostalgia fought for supremacy.

‘How long ago?’ Charlie totted it up. ‘Ten years.’ He whistled. ‘Is that all?’

‘I thought it was less.’ Kate felt tender towards those two awkward, lusty teens. She remembered the tingling, the breathlessness. It had been a watershed, a night of epic change.
Kate felt shy, suddenly. That night she and Charlie had been naked both literally and metaphorically.

‘I was very, um,
keen
if I remember rightly,’ said Charlie.

‘Keen’s one way to put it.’ Kate couldn’t meet his eye. She wondered if she’d gone as pink as she felt. ‘
Bloody quick
is another.’

‘I’ve improved since then.’

‘Oh really?’

‘I’ve got awards and everything.’

This light banter was do-able. Any exploration of the deep emotion they’d felt was not. ‘That’s not what Becca says.’

Charlie jerked. ‘Eh? What’s she said?’

Kate barked, a short, sharp delighted laugh. ‘Nothing! We don’t discuss it, you fool.’

‘Well, you never know. You two are close.’ Charlie slumped with relief.

‘It would be icky,’ said Kate. ‘We can’t talk about . . . you know . . .
before
.’

They were silent.

‘Look at us, awkward again,’ said Charlie, half serious. ‘Shame. We’ve worked so hard to be
normal
with each other.’ He sketched quotation marks in the
air.

Can I take his hand?
Kate didn’t allow herself to think too hard. She reached for his fingers and held them. ‘No, it’s not awkward. Let’s not let it be
awkward.’