A Place for Us (37 page)

Cat gestured. “Aren’t you going to join me? I can’t sit here drinking alone.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh. You’ve probably got loads to do before dinner service.” She shuffled along the bench. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“No—no.” Joe put his hand on the table. “I’m good for a while.
Please, don’t go.” He poured himself a glass from the fridge behind the bar and sat down opposite her. “Cheers,” he said. “To new beginnings.”

“In more ways than one,” she said, clinking his glass. “Good luck with . . . with baby Joe or Karen.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear and then held the glass by the stem, looking into the yellowy-green liquid. It was very quiet in the bar, warm sun streaming as far as the floorboards behind them but not making it all the way to their table, next to the kitchen. He let his gaze rest on her for a moment. Her thin fingers, short stubby nails, the faint lines around her eyes. She had a few freckles on her nose, he’d never noticed them. He didn’t really know her. At all. He cleared his throat.

“We’re excited. Both of us.”

“I thought you were an item, you and Karen,” she said frankly. “Gran says you’re not.”

“Oh. Well—no. She’s living with me.”

“Of course.”

“And I’m helping her with the baby.”

“Yes.”

Joe said steadily, “We’re in it together. We’ll probably buy the cottage down the road and knock through so I’m next door but I’m there all the time. You know . . . I can pick him or her up from school when she’s working late, that sort of thing.”

“That sounds like a very good plan,” said Cat. She nodded, then smiled. “You know—oh, I shouldn’t say it.”

“Go on,” Joe said, intrigued.

She drank some more wine. “This is going straight to my head. Last time I drank a bit too much, I ended up kissing you.”

“Well—I liked it,” he said. “For what it’s worth.”

“I did too.” Their eyes met over the wine and they both smiled. “I just wanted to say . . . I’m sorry I was so rude to you. I thought you were a bit of a sleazebag. And maybe you’re not.”

He shrugged. “I’ve let so many people down. It’s not great.”

“How so? Who?”

Joe shook his head. He didn’t want to get into it. “Never mind.”

He wished he could be the man who said what he was feeling. He looked at her, imagining saying the words:
I’m sorry I dicked you around. I was a total idiot. Karen’s gorgeous and funny and we had fun and we really
were a comfort to each other, before I found out she was married. I like her. But I like you even more. I like everything about you, your smile, the way you think, the way you frown because you’re afraid of all these things. How you are with Luke, with Jamie. How brave you are.

He wouldn’t ever say it, though. He liked making things, but he wasn’t good at explaining things. He rubbed his chin and, looking straight at her, said, “I’m not that kind of person. But there’s no reason on earth you should believe me, I know that. And with Karen . . .”

Cat leaned across the table. She said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I have to do this,” and she kissed him.

Cat

S
HE
’
D FORGOTTEN HOW
good he tasted, how lovely the feel of his mouth on hers was, the connection like memory foam, leaning into him again in exactly the right way.

Across the table, he kissed her back, pushing into her, a strange soft sound in his throat, and then just as suddenly pulled away from her. “What the hell did you do that for?” he said, startled.

Cat shrugged at him, and twisted her hair up into a ponytail. “Listen. I just wanted to . . . to wipe the slate clean. That injured-pride thing. I’ve been rude to you. You were stupid to kiss me, but I’ve kissed you too. We’re not kids.”

“We’re not kids? So what the hell, Cat—anyone could have walked in, Karen—”

She interrupted. “We’ve both been through some rough times, okay?” She could feel her heart thumping high in her chest, in her throat almost.
Just say it, just get through it.
“I like you, you like me, the timing isn’t right, that’s all there is to it.” She nodded and sat back against the settle. “Okay?”

“Okay?” He started laughing softly, then almost helplessly. “Cat, you’re bloody crazy. That’s an insane way to neutralize a situation, can’t you see that?”

She shrugged again. “I have been crazy. I’m not now. Clean slate, like I say.”

He was watching her, still laughing. She said, “With everything else that happened, it just feels like years ago. I don’t want you thinking of me as some victim. Or you feeling bad about what happened with us, carrying this guilt about so we have to shuffle around each other and it’s
awkward every day at work.
Oh, she’s damaged goods. Oh, he’s a terrible person.
Treading on eggshells.”

“Well, that’s for me to decide.” He was still looking shell-shocked, and Cat’s stomach lurched. “Like I say, if someone had come in—”

“No one cares about your own life as much as you do,” Cat said frankly. “Most important thing I’ve learned, over the last few years. It’s really just you.” She leaned across the table again. “You know the thing about men and women? You know what’s completely crap about relationships?”

“What?” he said cautiously.

“People start playing roles. All that’s bullshit. You and Karen should just do what you want.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before I started going out with Olivier, I was this confident person. I knew how to put up a shelf, how to argue with a gendarme, how to order steak right. And then because of him, because of the way I felt when I was with him . . . how worthless he made me feel . . . I changed. I wasn’t that person but I became that person, and he treated me like shit, so everyone else did too. I became shy, pathetic, afraid of everything. Just content to let it happen to me. Anyway . . . all I mean is . . . I wasn’t like that to start with. And that’s what relationships are about. Good ones, I mean. You have to be flexible. It’s not about someone being in charge and someone following, or someone being the star and someone the applause. Gran and Southpaw, they were everything, the whole package. He was better at some things, she was better at other things, but they were both in charge.” Cat smeared the wineglass with her fingers, frowning into it. “They led from the front, they were a partnership, because they knew what mattered to them, they knew what was important, and they worked everything else around that. Sometimes he was the star, sometimes she was.” She knew he was watching her, but she was too embarrassed now to stop and look at him. “I’ve always thought it, that’s when bad stuff creeps in, when you start having roles and suddenly you can’t break them.” She nodded, and stood up. “That’s all I wanted to say. It’s about being flexible. Rolling with the punches. Good times and bad. When I think about Olivier, I don’t think there was a day with him I was ever actually myself.”

“That’s the same as me and Jemma,” Joe said. “We were pretty
mismatched. I’d been the spotty fat kid a year before, I wasn’t in her league. I couldn’t believe she went for me.”

“But you weren’t with her because she was some stunning model. You liked her too.”

“I did, but it was more I thought I could look after her. Prove I wasn’t a bastard like my dad. Save her from these sleazy blokes who’d treat her badly.” She watched him work his cheek, rough with stubble, with his fingers.

“And where is she now?”

He leaned on the bar, facing her. “Oh, living with
Ian Sinclair
.”

“Who’s Ian Sinclair?”

“He’s got everything, hasn’t he? He’s a lawyer, got a nice pad in York, drives a big Subaru, buys her everything she wants, Jamie’s going to private school . . . all of that.” Joe said, “Her mum’s got her own flat now too; he’s bought that for her. He’s a wizard.”

“Well, aren’t you happy for her? For Jamie?”

“Yes, of course I am,” he said impatiently. “Of course.”

“And don’t you stop to think that if she hadn’t been with you and had Jamie, she might have ended up somewhere worse? She might have gone off with one of those blokes, and who knows what might have happened to her?”

“Jemma’s pretty tough,” Joe said.

Cat said, “I was pretty tough too, when I met Olivier.” Her mouth was dry. “You know, women often don’t have choices. They get sucked into things. My mum left when I was a few weeks old.” She touched his hand to try to make him understand. “I don’t know how she did it, it must have hurt her, but I never thought about her, only me. She felt she didn’t have any other option, and that’s awful. We live in a sexist world. We make girls think they’ll be rewarded for being decorative, and then they think it’s fine when they get treated like crap.”

“Your grandmother never did that to you.”

“Of course she didn’t. But I grew up without a mum and a dad.” Cat’s voice was soft. “And it meant I really wanted people to like me, all my life. I wanted my mum to come back and say she loved me and she was going to look after me, and she never did. I think that makes you into someone who’s a bit desperate for approval, that’s all.” Tears clouded her vision; she blinked them back. Daisy still had the power to overwhelm
her, but she knew that power was fading. “Look, Joe, all I’m saying is, you might have saved Jemma from something worse. You came in and loved her, and you gave her Jamie. You had a son. And Karen . . . she and my uncle were always an odd fit. She was using you a bit, I think? You know?”

“I used her, too,” Joe said. “It’s been strange, living down here. Without Jamie.” He brushed something off his forehead; she saw the spasm of emotion crossing his face. “I was so lonely. I mean, I was up for it. You can imagine, Karen’s pretty determined when she sets her mind to something.”

Cat didn’t want to hear about how great Karen was in bed. She didn’t want to think about anyone touching Joe, wrapping her arms round him, having him all to herself. She wanted to stay like this, in this deserted warm room, sun setting, the two of them leaning on the bar in their own perfectly sane world.

Already the spell was fading, though. She drained her drink. “Well, Karen’s lucky. Lucky you’re such a good guy, Joe. You really are. I’m sure it’s going to work out really well.” She pushed the glass to one side. “Shake on it?”

She was appalled at what a big lie it was. She wanted him to shrug off his responsibilities, right here, right now. Say,
I want you, Cat. I want you now. I’m leaving Karen to do it by herself, she’ll be fine. It’s right with you, I know it, you know it too. I’m going to lock the pub door and pull down the blinds and make love to you on the floor, and it’s going to be the best sex you’ve ever had, Catherine Winter. Hair-messing, earthshaking sex, and then we’ll move in with Jamie and Luke and make even more babies and grow plants and cook and love each other every day, in our own place.

She smiled a little to herself, then held out her hand. He shook it vigorously. “Thanks so much, Cat,” he said. His smile was ironic. “It’s good to have a friend. I mean it. Thanks for . . . for understanding.”

“Of course,” she said, nodding.

•   •   •

She walked back up to Winterfold feeling flushed with shame and attraction. The shadows were lengthening across the newly green fields. The evening was coming, and the warm breeze soothed her. Dog roses bloomed in the hedgerows, and stalks of Bath asparagus waved softly. She
picked a small bunch to take in to work the next day. She imagined Joe’s face, the pleasure it would give him to see it, and she smiled. She knew they weren’t going to be together. It was fine, she understood why. After everything else that had happened, just to have him in her life as a friend was more than she’d counted on. It was getting better, every day.

Luke and Martha were having tea outside as she walked up the drive. Luke was kicking a ball over to his grandmother, who was alternately deadheading flowers, drinking from her mug, and pacing up and down. When she heard Cat she turned.

“Darling. So great you’re back. Luke, run inside and fetch your mum a mug for tea. And some more cake.”

Luke ran off, and Martha came toward Cat. “How did it go?”

“It was fine,” said Cat. “It was . . . good.”

Martha watched her shrewdly. “He’s nice.”

“He’s very nice,” said Cat robustly. “Isn’t it great?” She noticed her grandmother’s expression was drawn. “Everything all right?”

Martha shook her head. “I can’t get hold of Florence. Neither can Jim,” she said. Her lips were thin. “She’s not answering her mobile and the number at her flat has been disconnected. No one’s heard from her.”

Florence

T
HE DAY AFTER
her return home, Florence slept as though she had been knocked unconscious, and when she was woken by the sound of a car horn and someone shouting in the street below, she felt muzzy. Hungover, as if her head were filled with wet sand. She looked around, her bleary eyes taking in the lines of her tiny, nunlike bedroom.

Then she saw the small scratched bottle, full to the neck with tiny little white pills. Remembered the previous night, the inscription on the label.

Martha Winter

Magnesium tablets

Two a day when constipation occurs

Use before 09/12/12

DO NOT EXCEED THE STATED DOSAGE

The poster of a Masaccio exhibition on the opposite wall had faded over the years so that the figures looked like greenish-yellow ghouls.

A pile of typewritten pages splayed across the cold stone floor; the transcript of the judge’s ruling. Florence rolled onto her side, blinking.
“
She is possibly the foremost expert in her subject in the world, and your cynical attempt to exploit that, your arrogance,
and your sheer deceit are frankly breathtaking.”

Florence rolled back and sat up slowly, staring cheerfully at the ghouls opposite. “Good morning,” she said, trying to sound happier than she felt. “I’m talking to you,” she said to the figure of Adam. “Yes, you. How
rude. Fine, ignore me then.” She sat on the edge of the bed, wiggling her toes and stretching, then got up and made some coffee.

Peter’s letter lay, along with the rest of the post, on the wedding chest. It had curled up in the night, as if trying to fold itself back into an oblong. Florence gathered up the post, the letters, the periodicals, the invitations, the prying, all of it except Jim’s postcard. She threw the whole pile into the rubbish bin.

“If you could see me now, Professor Connolly,” she said aloud as she waited for the coffeemaker to bubble, smelling the old, familiar, comforting scents of her home. She glanced at her desk, almost delirious with the thought of losing herself in some work again. “Yes, I talk to myself. Yes, I’m crazy. And I don’t bloody care.”

•   •   •

She didn’t have wireless Internet in her flat, so Florence had no way of knowing who’d been trying to contact her, which she rather enjoyed, but she knew she had to check her landline and her mobile, which had both rung consistently since she’d arrived back. Her mobile seemed to be crammed with missed calls, but the only thing she noticed, with a leaping heart, was a text from Jim. Florence took a deep breath, and read it.

Did you get home okay? Rather lonely here without you.

She was feeling so brave that she replied, tapping laboriously with many mistakes and much cursing.

Absolutely. Long dark night of soul but it’s over. Thank you for your lovely postcard. I miss you too, Jim. Can I come over and stay soon? Will bring new mugs to break.

After she’d sent this message, she became terrified of what she’d done and threw the phone onto the sofa, where it slid down behind the cushions. She couldn’t bear to hunt around for it, already certain she’d made a terrible
faux pas
. She felt like a teenager.

The demons of the night before seemed far away now, but she knew enough to know they might come back, and this tempered her
cheerfulness, for she did feel surprisingly cheerful, considering. Would she laugh at this one day? How she tried to kill herself with her father’s sleeping pills, but accidentally snatched her mother’s constipation prescription instead? She thought it was maybe symbolic of something: she knew Daisy had killed herself with pills purloined from that same cabinet, but Daisy had taken the right pills, and heroin too. In short, Daisy had known how to kill herself.

And now Florence, who had felt for the longest time as though the last few months were leading up to that night, that moment alone with these pills and the decision to end her life, was faced with the question of what came next.

She let her mind drift. Either she changed something, went forward in a different way, or she continued upon the same path and accepted that, at some point, she would go around in a circle, come to this bend in the road again. Florence had trained her brain over the years. She had nourished it, exercised it, treated it with respect. She had to listen to it now, to feel there was some point to the very clear conviction she’d had that last night was the night everything changed. Coming back gave her some clarity of thought. She tried to pin it down, but perhaps the whole couldn’t be seen yet, and she accepted that too.

“It was the right thing to do,” she said aloud, as she picked up the pages of the transcript and filed them away. “It was the right thing to do,” she said, as she pinned up Jim’s postcard. “It was the right thing to do,” she said, as she took a deep breath and reached for the landline to call her mother, before remembering she’d pulled the phone cord away from the wall.

She tried to plug the socket back in, but it wouldn’t work. So she hunted around down the back of the sofa, and pulled her mobile out from deep inside the frame. In addition to Jim’s text, there were two voicemails from Martha. Florence knelt on the sofa, the frame creaking underneath her, and listened intently to the last one.

“Listen, Flo—please call me? I don’t know where you are.
Are
you back in Italy? Your phone doesn’t seem to work. Darling, please call me. I’m—Cat’s here. She’s back. I need to talk to you. I need to tell you something and we need to talk. I want to see you. Call me back, sweetheart.”

Florence looked at the postcard on the wall. She took a deep breath.
She felt as if she were staring out of a plane, parachute on her back. She said softly to herself: “Yes.”

She made another coffee and rang her mother.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Who’s that?”

“It’s me, Ma. Flo.”

“Florence!” Martha’s voice was joyous with relief. “Oh, my goodness, darling, how are you? I’ve been . . . I’ve been trying to get hold of you. I was getting rather worried.”

“Worried?”

“Oh, I had a . . . a silly feeling.” Her mother laughed. “It’s silly.”

Florence said slowly, “Oh. I’m back now. Got in last night.”

“Ah. How are you?”

“I’m good.” Florence looked at the bottle of pills and smiled to herself. “I’m really well. How—how are you?”

“Yes. I’m really well too. Flo—”

She interrupted, suddenly terrified of what came next. “Ma, I was just ringing to say I forgot something when I was last over. My old notes on Filippo Lippi, I need them for an article I’m supposed to be writing.”

“Well, tell me where they are and I can post them for you.”

“They’re in Dad’s—the study. With all my other papers, on the shelf below the encyclopedias. It’s a cloth folder, kind of red and black.”

She could hear her mother walking through the house. “Fine, well, then. I see it. So you want me to send them to you?”

“Yes, please, Ma.”

“Grand.”

There was a pause. Small, expectant pause.

“And—I wanted to say something too.”

“You do? Oh—well, I—okay. You go first.”

Florence blundered on. “I’m sorry about how I was when I was over. The court case and everything else. It made me rather lose the plot for a while. I’ve been very unhappy. Very selfish. I wasn’t . . . Anyway, I am sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Her mother laughed. Florence stiffened. She wondered if she should just put the phone down, but then Martha’s voice softened. “You’re not the one who should be sorry.”

“Oh.”

“Darling Flo, this is ridiculous. . . . When are you coming back? I really would like to see you. Talk to you properly. Just us two.”

With one finger, Florence slowly pushed the pill bottle across the kitchen countertop. “I’m not sure—I’ve just got back here. I can’t leave for a while, there’s various things. . . . Probably August?”

“Right.” Martha’s voice sank.

“Ma, do you need me to come back?”

“No. Yes.”

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m absolutely fine. I need to tell you something.” Martha gave a small sigh. “It’s about you, Flo, darling. Something you need to know.”

Florence stepped out of the sunny kitchen into the darkness of the large sitting room, her heart beating like a drum. She put her hand on the bureau to steady herself, glad that she was alone and no one could see her face. She had been waiting for this moment for most of her life, since she was nine in fact, and now that it was here she didn’t want it to happen.

“I know,” she said.

“You know what?” Martha’s voice was close to the receiver.

“I’ve always known. Ma.” The word fell heavily out of her mouth. “I know I’m not your child. I know my mother left me on the street and you adopted me from some orphanage. Daisy told me, Ma. After Wilbur died and she got really nasty. She used to whisper it in my ear at night.”

There was silence but for one small sob.

“Ma?” she said tentatively, after a long pause.

Eventually her mother said, “Oh. It’s not even ten in the morning.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. That’s . . . that’s awful, sweetheart. Is that really what she told you?”

“Well, yeah, Ma. You never believed me when I’d tell you about her, so—so I stopped after a while.”

“Oh, Daisy.” Martha’s voice was low. “Florence, sweetheart . . . you’re not from some orphanage. You’re Pa’s niece. His sister was your mother—she, she was only nineteen.”

Below her, a car trundled too fast down the narrow street; someone cursed, a dog barked, backing out of its way. Florence stood very still.

Eventually she said: “I—I’m Pa’s—I am his . . . his niece?”

“His niece. You were always part of him, oh darling, yes, of course.”

“His sister?” Florence turned around slowly, kept turning. “She was my—my mother?”

“Times were different then; she was engaged to someone else. She—we agreed—we wanted to take you. You became ours.”

Florence had stopped revolving. She stood with her hand over her face, eyes covered, as though terrified of what she might see. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Martha’s voice was hoarse. “Cassie begged us not to tell anyone. Your father promised her. They had an awful childhood, and—I can’t explain it all now. Oh, Daisy. What did you do?” Martha gave a sob. “Daisy lied, darling. I don’t know how she found out, but she must have heard us talking—you know what she was like.”

“I do, Ma,” Florence said.

“Well, she was wrong, it’s not true. You’re not Daddy’s daughter, you’re his niece, but—oh, you were the one he really loved. ‘My angel.’ That’s what he used to call you.”

“Who was—the father?” She didn’t want to say “my father.”

“I don’t know. A music teacher. Older than her. He did a bunk, but I’m sure we can find out, I don’t want you to—oh dear! Oh, goodness.” And Martha started to laugh, a weak, silvery rattle. “This is all wrong. Get you and Cat back, that’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to do this face-to-face, not for you to find out like this.” She took a deep breath. “Telling you over the phone. It’s just not right.”

“I knew all along, Ma.”

“And you knew all along.” Martha was breathing hard. “I’m sorry. I think I’m going mad.”

“Where is she?” Florence said, trying not to sound as scared as she felt.

“Who?”

“My—my real mother.”

“Your—Cassie. Cassie, of course. I—oh, love. I don’t know. We hadn’t seen her for years.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Martha drew a deep breath. “I wish—I’ve just started going through the study, all your father’s papers. There must be something there. Last thing I heard, she was in Walthamstow.”

“When was that?”

There was a pause. “Twenty years ago.”

Florence bowed her head. “Didn’t Pa ever—”

“I called her number, darling. She doesn’t live there anymore. I . . . but we’ll see, okay? We’ll find her. Cassie Doolan. But she was married, and I don’t know her husband’s name. I’m sure she’d have changed her name. But, darling, she didn’t want to stay in touch. She was quite adamant about that to your father.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry. But we’ll start looking for her. We will find her.”

“Ma, I need to think about it all. Take it all in.”

“Of course, darling.”

The sound of nothing, crackling over the phone line. Florence imagined the cables running under the sea, through the land, carrying this weight of silence between them, and still she didn’t know what came next, and then Martha cleared her throat.

“Right. That’s enough time. Flo, darling, can I come and see you? I’ll be there by teatime. Would that work?”

She picked at the worn wicker chair. “Ma—I think you’re getting confused. I’m in Florence. I’ll come and see you soon. I will, I promise.”

The voice down the line was amused. “I know where you are, darling. I haven’t lost my marbles. I want to come and see you.”

“What? Come today? Ma, you can’t just jump on a plane and . . .” Florence trailed off. Why couldn’t she?

“I’ve been looking at flights with Cat. They had availability this morning—there’s a flight in a little while leaving from Bristol. I wanted to sit opposite you, tell you all this in a sound and sane way. Look you in the eye, my darling.”

“But that doesn’t mean you have to . . .” Florence looked around. Her mother, here? “It’s so far.”

Martha broke in. “No, it’s not. I’ll see you later. Yes. I’ll be with you for a drink this evening. Gin and tonic. Make sure—”

“Of course, Ma. Lime. Of course, who do you think I am?” Florence smiled, her throat tight.

“I know who you are, my darling. Right, then.” Martha sounded crisp, efficient, as if this was completely normal. “I have your address, and I’ll get Bill to call you with my flight details. I’m perfectly capable of getting a cab from the airport. You have that drink ready. Good-bye, my sweet girl. I’ll see you soon.” And with that, the phone went dead, leaving Florence staring, openmouthed, into her receiver.