Face Value (30 page)

She fiddled with the tag of the tea bag, pulling the string away until it dangled over the edge of the mug, toast in the other hand. A splash of milk. Two sugars. A cookbook lay next to the toaster, open at a recipe for Oriental Tofu, Onion, and Mushroom Kebabs. By the time the tea was ready, she needed more toast. It was only when she turned around to wedge two more thick white slices of doughy bread into the toaster that she saw him.

“Morris?!”

The gardener was standing in the doorway, naked. He had a fat belly, skinny legs, and his body was pale in contrast with his sun-battered face. She would have screamed, but for the fact that he looked more frightened than she did. When he turned to run away, she noticed his buttock cheeks were disproportionately small to his beer-barreled torso. They jiggled as he ran. His back was hairy.

“I’m sorry, love!” he shouted, panicked, as he disappeared back down the hallway, then ran up the stairs, his hands clasped to his member, even though the damage had already been done.

Kate shook with laughter. She could hear Morris thudding up the stairs, a door opening and slamming shut, then general chatter and confusion, muffled, indistinct, before the door opened and new footsteps came running in her direction. Her tea sloshed over the edge of the mug as she laughed again, so she sat down at the table with the last remaining scrap of toast. Jet lag had taken the edge off any fear she might have expected to feel at finding the gardener naked in the kitchen. Either Morris was some pervert who took great pleasure in wandering around naked in her house when he was supposed to be outside mowing the lawn, or . . .

“Hello, love, didn’t expect you back so soon!” It was her mum now who was standing in the doorway, looking surprisingly fetching in a rose-embellished toweling robe, her hair disheveled in a way that no hair product could have delivered. Her cheeks were glowing, this time not through any broken capillaries or excess of blusher, but excitedly, blissfully. Her lips were a just-bitten red, the kind of red that only happened when you’d had the life kissed out of them. She didn’t seem to care that her robe was open to the waist, tied just enough to prevent her bosoms popping out, but not enough to hide from Kate her full, comely figure. Her mum was looking, for a fiftysomething or however old she was . . . her mum was looking, well, hot.

“Mum!” She stood for a second, taking her in. She wanted to tell her how well she was looking, to ask her what the hell the naked gardener was doing, even though it was pretty obvious. She wanted to be calm, cool, collected, tell her about her troubles, ask if she’d been well, talk about the weather. None of these topics of conversation came out of her mouth. Instead, she stood up clumsily, sent her tea flying over the table, pushed the chair out, and scrambled to get to her, to fling her arms around her, to burst into tears.

She tried to wipe them away quickly, tried to be the Kate she thought she was, the strong, silent, independent Kate, who’d taken on a top job in New York, hobnobbed with the rich, famous, and surgically enhanced, gone underground in a bid to unearth a huge US scandal (even if it had all been a hoax). She tried to shrug off the tears, like she’d shrugged off all that was Maidstone: the boredom, the bus to work, Trisha Hillmory, even her mum (her mum!), Lise, Tania, Brian, all of them. Instead, she sniffled against her mum’s shoulders, and her tears disappeared into a dozen red toweling roses.

“It’s okay, darling . . . you’re home now . . . it’ll be all right,” said her mum. Darleen rubbed her back, like she’d done when Kate was a baby, a toddler, a child, a teenager. It was a smooth, gentle, yet firm stroke, different to any beauty therapist’s massage or any boyfriend’s caress.

“It’s good to have you back, love, we’ve missed you. Shall we have another cup of tea? Morris came down to make me one, but he’s a little . . . shy!” With her head on her shoulder, Kate could just open her eyes enough to see past the fronds of Darleen’s brown hair, and beyond into the garden. A sparrow flew into the new nest.

She lifted her head up, looked into her mum’s eyes. Her mum and Morris! How long had that been going on for? She burst out laughing. Her mum giggled back, hugging her until she thought her ribs would crack.

“I didn’t want to tell you, because I wasn’t sure at first,” said Darleen, speaking softly over her cup of tea, raising her eyes toward the bedroom upstairs in deference to Morris’s feelings. “I mean, the truth is, I’ve been seeing him for some time. But I wasn’t ready to, you know, commit. He’s nice, though. More intelligent than I had him down for . . . well, you know, being a gardener. He knows about plants obviously, but I thought, if he’s digging up gardens, it must be because he’s academically, well, you know . . . challenged.”

She flicked the hair out of her eyes. You’d pay a lot of money for a blow-dry as ruffled and tussled as that. Her mum had never confided in her like this about anything before. Maybe there hadn’t been that much to confide.

“Mum, honestly . . . don’t be such a snob! You’re not exactly Lady Chatterley! Gardening—it doesn’t mean he’s an idiot! You can make a lot now as a landscape gardener.”

“Oh, he won’t do that. He’s happy doing what he does, he doesn’t need a career or anything silly like that. He speaks Latin! Can you believe it? Knows all the plant names. And he’s been looking after me while you’ve been away.”

“I can see . . . ,” said Kate, marveling at how wrinkle-free her mum’s face was looking. She looked years younger. It was quite extraordinary.

“He’s retiled the bathroom for me, isn’t that nice? We went down to Homebase—oh, it was ever so funny, Kate, I wish you’d seen us, like some old married couple arguing in the aisles about turquoise mosaics or these new, shiny ones—opal . . . opalescent, that’s what they were! Very pretty, though, I think you’ll love it.”

“Oh, Mum, that’s lovely for you. I’m pleased.”

“And did you see the hall? All that time, those lovely wooden tiles right under the carpet, can you believe it?”

Kate nodded approvingly.

“I knew you’d like him, love.” Darleen looked relieved. They sat silently for a second, sipping their tea at the same time, nestling back into an easy mother-daughter telepathy.

“He’s moved in, Kate, do you mind?”

She didn’t. She was happy for her mum. It was funny how if she hadn’t been away, hadn’t been through everything she’d been through, she might have felt differently, might have found it harder to understand how her mum could want to move the gardener of all people into their home. But she didn’t mind. Not at all. It actually made her feel happy to know that her mum had someone in her life, finally, after all these years of solitude, with nothing but the odd (really odd) boyfriend to keep her company. She imagined Morris coming with his bags—a couple of suitcases?—and the two of them unpacking together, moving his things in among Darleen’s easy-iron blouses and lambswool sweaters like a couple of young lovers. Maybe they used her room as a spare room now, kept his junk there, if he had any.

She reached across the table, covered in the same red plastic gingham cloth they’d had since her childhood, and held her mum’s hands. It was a movement that reminded her of JK3 and their first meeting, that interview, where he’d pulled her across the table so dramatically it had cut into her stomach, as if trying to make his mark on her.

“Mum . . . I love you,” she said quietly. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d told her that.

“I know, love. Me, too.”

She looked into Darleen’s eyes, big watery pools of love, laughter, and everything that had guided Kate through life so far, that had been a constant for her. She knew it was normal not to appreciate your mum, but it was only at this moment that she understood what she’d missed out on by ignoring her for so long, forgetting she was there for her. Love was doing amazing things for Darleen, evidently. Her skin glowed, her mouth lacked those tired, vertical lines that seemed to pull her face downward, she’d lost that grumpy scowl between her brows. . . .

“Mum.” Kate let go of her hands and pulled backward.

“Yes, love?”

Kate pulled her shoulders up straight, staring hard at her mum’s face. Something in the way her face moved went way beyond what love could do.

“You’ve had Botox, haven’t you!”

Darleen smiled broadly. Nothing else moved, bar her mouth.

“Yes!” she laughed. “It’s great, isn’t it?”

Kate couldn’t believe she’d done it. Hadn’t Kate told her not to? That it would wreck her system, lie in it like a cancer waiting to sprout; that there were side effects just waiting to happen—sure, not the first time, but perhaps the second, third, or fourth time as the addiction spread, as her every six-month habit gripped her in a vise, giving her an ageless future, one in which she would never know, always wonder how she would have looked had she not rubbed it all away with some dirty little needle. She could get eyelid drooping! Headaches that would leave her bedridden or give her double vision! Some people even worried that a lifetime of Botox could result in a future of Alzheimer’s!

“Mum! Botox is a poison. Don’t you know that?” She said it gently, but her concern was written all over her furrowed brow.

“And penicillin’s a fungus! My derm told me Botox is only harmful when it’s undiluted and in really big doses, and you know they don’t give it like that to people for wrinkles.” She laughed, patting her face as if to check the Botox was still there.

“Yes, but we eat fungus, certain types anyway, that’s a different kettle of fish altogether.” She wasn’t prepared for her mum of all people to be an expert; and besides, how was it that she suddenly had a “derm”?

“Darling . . . look at me,” said her mum, this time taking the initiative to reach across the table and hold Kate’s hands. “I’m happy,” she said. “For the first time in ages, I feel like I’m living. You know what? When I think about it, really, it’s the first time since
he
died that I’m happy!” Her eyes misted up; a tear fell from one, silently down her cheek. Kate reached up to Darleen’s face to wipe it away with her finger. “It’s not the Botox that makes me happy, I know that. But I feel good about life. I want to live it.”

She was right of course. What made Kate think she could judge her, tell her off? What did she know about what it was like to be fiftysomething and single, to feel her spirits sink like damp squibs on an autumn night as one by one the knights in shining armor rode on past, heads turned in the other direction, to where the fireworks were lighting up the sky in a blaze of younger, brighter glory? Besides, Darleen was an adult, wasn’t she? Capable of making her own life choices. With access to the same caveats and advice that Kate had, thanks to the Internet, and the sudden omnipresence, even in Maidstone, of “derms.” And Kate couldn’t argue with her; she looked good.

“Mum, you do what you have to do,” she said, smiling gently at her. They lifted their hands away from each other and took another sip of tea. “But not too often, right? Please. You never know what the long-term side effects will be.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I don’t want one of those weird, frozen faces, like that newscaster woman you did once. Trisha. Have you seen her lately? My derm says she’d never have given her that much!”

“How did you know she’d had Botox?”

“Oh, everyone knows!” She took another sip of her tea. “She left a message for you, by the way.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what was weirder: Trisha Hillmory calling her, or her mum having had Botox.

Morris padded into the kitchen. He had on a checkered lumberjack-style cotton shirt and a pair of faded blue denims, the kind old men wear, with a thick brown belt with a silver buckle. The whole ensemble made him look like a cuddly country-and-western singer, now retired.

“Hello, Kate,” he said, smiling awkwardly at her. “Good to have you home. Sorry about before. . . .”

They put their mugs down, and Darleen stood up, in a way that was almost respectful, his entrance propelling her subconsciously toward him.

“Cup of tea, sweetheart?” she said. It was the first time Kate had ever heard her mum call anyone sweetheart.

He nodded and looked for a chair to sit down on. They’d only ever had two chairs in the kitchen; the other four had got in the way and now stood like guards around the edge of the unused dining room next door, spares for any surprise guests.

“Here, Morris, take mine,” said Kate, getting up abruptly.

He looked surprised, touched even.

“Oh, no, love. Wouldn’t dream of it. Not after your long journey.” He smiled again, still awkwardly, then his face turned more serious.

“Did you tell her, Darleen?” Kate noticed that he almost whispered her name, as if it was precious to him. She liked that. He would take care of her mum. Cherish her.

“About us, dear? Oh, yes!” Darleen moved over to him and put her arm around his waist.

“No, love. That’s not what I meant.” He looked into her eyes, his voice fell until it was barely audible, then his eyes turned to meet Kate’s. “Lise.”

twenty-six

Lise had breast cancer. Steve had discovered a lump in her right breast, the size of a small pebble, and insisted she go straight to the hospital for tests. She’d been frightened to go, terrified, something inside her warning against the dangers of discovery. She’d been desperate to let Kate know, but desperate at the same time to protect her. And she wanted to tell her herself. No one else was allowed to, they could only urge her to contact Lise, if they got the chance. With Kate dashing around here, there, and everywhere, that had been impossible. So two weeks or so ago, Lise had had her right breast removed, and after a short spell in the hospital, she was now recuperating at home until the surgeons decided what the next course of action was.

They drove in silence round to Lise’s flat, Morris at the wheel, Darleen beside him, Kate in the back. She had cried the instant her mum had broken the news to her, felt panic rising furiously and steadily until she was at the point she found herself now: numb.