Coming of Age (8 page)

Nobody taps at the door.

Her bedside clock shows two, three, four. She hears something creak on the landing. Perhaps it's Chris, not sure which door to tap on?

She slips out of bed and opens her door a fraction.

Hannah stands in the doorway of Dad's room, blows him a kiss, whispers, “See you tonight, darling. Love you.” She vanishes down the stairs, trailing lily-of-the-valley.

Tyler growls from his basket.

Hannah murmurs, “Good dog, Tyler. It's only me.”

The front door opens and closes. Hannah revs her car and drives away.

Amy slumps back on to her damp, tangled sheets. She falls instantly into the pit of sleep.

When she wakes, sunlight splashes fiercely on her pillow. The clock says half-past eleven. Amy stares at it. Memories of yesterday flood back.

She sits up with a start.

A piece of paper has been pushed under her door.

She leaps out of bed, scrabbles at it.

Dear Amy

Jules and I have left for Perugia. We didn't want to wake you. Thank you for a lovely party. If anything I said last night offended you, I can only say I must have misread all the signs. I'm desperately sorry.

Take care of yourself.

Love Christopher

“You've been crying.”

Ruth stood in the doorway. She pulled Amy into the house.

“Cup of tea? Come into the kitchen. Everybody's gone for a Sunday afternoon walk but I'm knackered after last night. What's wrong?”

Amy told her. First about Dad and Aunt Charlotte. Then Dad and Hannah. Then Chris. She pulled Chris's note out of her pocket. “Look. That's the last I'll probably ever hear from him.”

Ruth glanced at it. “Don't be so melodramatic. Why don't you write to him and explain? I'm sure he'll understand.”

“Where do I write? I haven't got an address in Perugia, and even if I had, by the time it arrives he'll probably have moved on.”

“Hasn't Julian left you an address? You must have
some
idea where they've gone . . . Here, drink this.”

Amy clutched the mug of tea. “Maybe Dad knows. I feel such a fool. What was I thinking of, running off like that?”

“You'd had a shock.”

“Too right. It's the last thing I expected, Dad and Hannah snogging like teenagers!”

Ruth giggled.

“It's not funny.”

“Sorry. Though it is romantic, isn't it? Your dad finding true love again.”

Amy said venomously, “True love? True nothing!” She gulped the burning tea. “They went to bed together. I saw her leaving Dad's room at four o'clock.”

“I think you should give him a break.”

“Why
should
I?”

“Because Hannah's better than Aunt Charlotte! He's got a girlfriend and he's obviously head over heels. So they're sleeping together. Wouldn't it be odd if they weren't?”

“It's all right for you.” Amy's hand shook. A dollop of tea flopped on her jeans, spreading a dark puddle, stinging her thigh. “You can look at it from the outside. He's my
dad
. Or should I say, he
was
my dad? It's like I've lost him to a stranger.”

“He'll
always
be your dad.”

“And now, in the space of one glorious weekend, I've lost Christopher too.”

Nine

“Well, sweetheart,” Dad says cheerfully.

He'd slicked his hair back from his forehead after his shower. Amy notices with alarm it makes him look ten years younger. He also looks thinner. All that stupid cycling, that cavorting on the trampoline, are obviously paying off.

“Just you and me together again for Monday morning breakfast . . . How nice.”

“You could say that.” Amy stuffs a forkful of scrambled eggs into her mouth. It tastes disgusting.
I must've sploshed half a sea of salt into this by mistake
.

“What
do
you mean?”

“Only that I'm sure
you'd
like there to be three of us.”

“You mean you miss Jules?” Dad sounds relieved. “So do I. And Christopher – charming lad.”

Amy tries to ignore the way her heart leaps into her mouth at the mention of Chris. “I mean you wish your darling Hannah was right here beside you.”

“I
beg
your pardon!” Dad splutters into his juice.

“Seeing as how you're practically joined at the hip,” Amy continues in a deadpan voice, “I'm amazed you haven't already asked her to move in.”

Dad gulps. His face, Amy sees with delight, has flushed a dark red. “There's no need to be offensive.”

She glares at him. “I think there's
every
need.”

“My friendship with Hannah –”

“It's a bit more than
friendship
, Dad.”

“That's nothing to do with you!”

“Isn't it?” Amy's heart thuds with indignation. “Snogging in the garden at my birthday party? Sleeping with Hannah when Jules and Chris and me were upstairs, across the landing? Just
friends
, are we, Dad?”

He flings down his serviette. “Look here, Amy. I will not have you talking to me like that. Understand?”

“No, I
don't
.” She clenches her fists. “You've started behaving like a besotted teenager!”

“A
what
?”

“After all those brilliant years with Mum . . . How
dare
you betray her?”

Dad stares at her. Thin lines etch the corners of his eyes. “You've no idea what you're talking about.” His face darkens. “I was never, for one single solitary moment, disloyal or unfaithful to your mother. It was she who . . .” He turns his head away.

“Who what?”

“Never mind. I've already said too much.”

“You've told me nothing.”

“That's how it's going to stay.” Dad runs a hand through his hair. It flops into its usual untidy zigzag. “I'm not saying any more, not one word.” He stands up. “If you'll excuse me, my patients are waiting.”

“Sure, your patients. Don't let me keep you from them. Talk to
them
, do you, Dad?”

“You know I do.”

“Then why don't you talk to
me
?”

Dad turns from the door. “I'll say this to you, and then the subject is closed.” The sprightly vigour has drained from his body. “Mum was a wonderful woman, a good wife and a great mother.” He hesitates. “But she wasn't perfect, Amy. Don't make out she was some kind of saint.”

Amy shivers. Once again, Ruth's words ring in her head:

“You put your mum on a bit of a pedestal.”

“I loved her.” Amy's voice sounds thin and feeble, her palms feel clammy with sweat.

“So did I. With all my heart.” Dad chokes over the words. “But if you think that's going to stop me loving Hannah, you're
very
much mistaken.”

Amy walked up and down the hill of Guildford High Street. She took a deep breath and dashed into the bank. She used her cashcard for the first time, reciting her pin number to herself, staring anxiously at the screen's instructions, prodding nervously at the buttons.

The notes smelt stale. She stuffed them into her bag, glanced guiltily over her shoulder, whizzed out to the street as if the bank were on fire.

I don't know what I'm making such a fuss about. It's my money, my allowance. I'll spend it how I want.

She headed straight for the travel agent's, pushed at the door, surprised and relieved that she was the only customer. A pale-faced young man with spots and greasy hair gave her a weary grin.

Amy flicked her hair over her shoulder. “A friend of mine,” she said carefully, “wants to go to Florence. She's asked me to get her some details. She wants to go in August, in a fortnight's time. On Sunday 12th August, travelling back the following Saturday, the 18th. Could you tell me how much it'll cost?”

“It depends where she wants to stay.” The man looked instantly more interested, as if he could see another fat commission in his payslip. “Plain or fancy?”

“Plain. Clean and decent. And safe. But no frills. Bed and breakfast will do.”

“Right.” He jabbed a stubby finger at his computer. “I assume she'll be flying direct to Florence? If so, she'll have to leave from Gatwick. If she wants to fly from Heathrow, she'll have to go to Rome or Zurich and change planes.”

Amy's stomach clenched with fright. “Gatwick direct.”

“With a door-to-door service? Does she want an airline car to pick her up?”

Amy thought rapidly. If she used a local taxi firm, the driver might recognise her, wonder – and gossip about – why she was travelling alone. Buses on a Sunday morning would be non-existent. If she wanted to escape incognito, she'd better do it properly. “Yes, please. Door to door.”

He screwed up his eyes against the computer's glare. “There's one seat for Sunday the 11th, leaving on the afternoon flight at two-fifteen. Shall I reserve it?”

“I need to talk to my friend.”

“I'll hold it for you until noon. After that, it's first come, first served.” He glanced around the empty shop. “We get very busy this time of year.”

Amy perched uncomfortably in Starbucks, on a stool by the window, trying to scrape up enough courage to go back to the travel agent's and admit the ticket was for her. The froth on her cooling cappuccino sank to a thin scum.

She had the money, the details, the opportunity. She had the motive. She'd bought a map of Florence, a guidebook to Italy and a rapid learner's paperback:
Speak Italian in a Week
. She'd be an idiot to lose her bottle now.

She gazed enviously at the carefree shoppers in their sunhats, shorts and floppy shirts. They seemed so confident, so sure where they were going.

What if she flew to Florence and something went wrong? Nobody would know where she was for a whole week, not Dad, not Julian, not Ruth. She couldn't tell Ruth. If she did, she'd have to tell her about Marcello. Or invent some improbable story that Ruth would see through like a shot.

If she was going, it'd have to be a secret flight. Taking the risk. The real Houdini.

She sipped at her cold coffee, grimaced, pushed the cup aside.

It was no good.

Too many things might go wrong. She'd get lost at the airport or in Florence. She'd be mugged, lose all her money, her tickets, be unable to get home. The plane might crash. Nobody would be able to identify her. Everyone would think she'd vanished off the face of the earth, run away from home because she didn't want to be with Dad.

The whole idea had been ludicrous. She'd never find Marcello – and even if she did, what on earth would she say to him? Did she really intend to wave a battered old postcard under his nose, demanding to know whether he'd written it and why?

She could think of nothing more undignified. He'd never admit to anything. He'd probably forgotten who Mum was. He'd have a wife and six children by now. He'd think she was some crazy little English kid.

The week would be a waste of time and money.

She stood up. End of story. She'd go straight home and tear up that wretched card. Grit her teeth and go to France with Mrs Boring Baxter. She flung her bag over her shoulder.

A woman pushed into Starbucks, bumping against her. The scent of lily-of-the-valley filled the air.

“Amy!” Hannah wore an immaculate ice-blue trouser suit with a floaty chiffon scarf. Her hair had been freshly washed and cut. Amy felt dowdy and dull. “What a lovely surprise! May I join you?”

“I'm just leaving.”

“Another ten minutes won't hurt. I've got the day off. The freedom's quite gone to my head.”

“I'm meeting someone in half an hour.”

“That gives us plenty of time.” Hannah guided Amy towards an empty table. “I've been meaning to have a chat with you for ages.”

Amy plonked herself into a chair, squashing her bag beneath it so that Hannah wouldn't spot the books on Italy.

Triumphantly, Hannah brought over two fruit smoothies. “There now! Much better than another slug of caffeine.” She slid gracefully into a chair. “Isn't this fun?”

Amy bit her lip.

“I wanted to say a special thank-you for asking me to your birthday party. I'm getting to know lots of the villagers in a professional capacity, but it's great once in a while not to wear my doctor's hat!”

Amy filled her mouth with the smoothie. Banana and lemon sorbet, a weird mixture, surprisingly delicious, heavy and refreshing.
I'll let her chatter on for another ten minutes. Then I'll get up and go straight home.

“I also wanted to say,” the hazel eyes flickered, “William's told me all about your mum and the accident. I'm so proud of you.” Her voice darkened. “It's not easy, it it?”

“What isn't?” Amy asked rudely.

“Coping with life when you've lost somebody you love.”

“How would
you
know?”

Hannah dipped her head. “I was engaged to a medical student. Eight years ago.”

In spite of herself, Amy was intrigued. “What happened?”

“He was killed in a road accident. We never had a chance to say goodbye. It took me two years to recover.” Hannah's eyes sparked with tears. “I don't talk about it.” She sipped her drink. A thin line of banana froth clung to her lipsticked mouth. “I haven't even told William. That's how private it is.”

“So why tell me?”

“Because I want you to know I'm on your side. It must be hard, me being around, after having your dad to yourself. I don't want to come between you, I honestly don't.”

Some hope. You've come between us good and proper.

She looked Hannah in the eyes. “Do you love him?”

Hannah blushed. “It would be hard
not
to. I don't fall in love easily. After Jack died, I never thought . . .” She fiddled with her scarf. “It's partly why I went to Africa.”

Amy drank to the bottom of the liquid. Her stomach felt as if she'd eaten a three-course meal.

“I wanted to get away from everything. It's extraordinary the difference it can make.”

Amy put down her glass. “You think so?”

“I
know
so. Going off on your own gives you an incredible sense of independence. Puts everything in perspective. All the snarls you get trapped in are sorted, just like that.”

“Really?”

“Best thing I ever did. Before Africa, I'd always belonged to someone else. I was their daughter or their sister or their aunt. Their lover. Their student or their lodger. Africa let me breathe. Gave me the freedom to be myself.

“At first, it's frightening. You think, God, I'm on my own. I've made the wrong choice, it's too late to turn back. But then your courage takes over and you find yourself . . . Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Amy said slowly. “I think I do.” She glanced at her watch. She had five minutes to get to the travel agent's.

“Thanks for the drink,” she said. “I've got to go.”

Amy checked the contents of her leather bag yet again. Passport, tickets, traveller's cheques, euros, the map of Florence, the guidebook,
Speak Italian in a Week
. Marcello's card. And her beloved copy of
Shakespeare's Sonnets
.

Guiltily she squashed the bag behind her desk.

Yesterday Dad had asked her whether she minded if he and Hannah left for Cardiff on Friday evening.

“It'll mean we'll have two clear weekends and the week between,” he said. “Dora's agreed to have Tyler. He'll go off with her on Friday morning.”

“That's fine,” Amy said quickly. “I'll spend Saturday with Ruth. We're leaving early on Sunday to catch the Eurostar.”

“You must be looking forward to Paris. It's such a romantic city.”

“Oh, I am,” Amy said blankly. “Very much indeed.”

Amy waves them goodbye, stands silently in the doorway, shuts the front door behind her. The house feels eerily quiet. Tyler's scampering feet echo in her ears. The wind sighs in the firs.

She picks up the phone.

“Ruth, it's me.”

“Hi! Coming for lunch tomorrow?”

“That's what I've rung about. I'm not feeling well, and I thought, seeing as how we're off on Sunday, maybe I'd better stay in bed.”

“What's the matter?”

“A cracking headache and I feel sick. I haven't eaten anything all day. The thought of food makes me feel like throwing up.”

“Shall I come over and play nurse?”

“No. I'll be fine . . . I'll ring you tomorrow.”

“Ruth, it's me.”

“How are you?”

Amy gives her voice a feeble tremor. “A lot worse.”

“Have you been sick?” Ruth sounds worried.

“I'm afraid I have.”

“You'd better see a doctor.”

“I've just spoken to Dr Martin at Dad's surgery. He said he'll pop in this evening. But it's bad news about the trip. He says I've got gastric flu and I can't travel.”

“I'm coming straight round.”