Going Home (26 page)

Early in the morning, long before anyone else was awake, I sat at my window and watched the soft mist hugging the lawn and the meadow behind. It was still cool, but the sun was already burning the mist away and shining with a warmth and crispness that signalled another beautiful May day. The trees in the orchard were still, heavy with new leaves. The flowers were unfurling and I could already hear the drone of a bee. In the background, a sweet-throated blackbird and a wood-pigeon gave a dawn chorus. It was my favourite time of day at Keeper House.

I sat in the old silk straight-backed chair by my window, my knees drawn up to my chin, T-shirt nightie tucked under my toes. I took a sip from the cup of tea I’d made oh-so-quietly in the kitchen. I love the secrets a house holds early in the morning, before anyone else is up. It sometimes seems to hum with the promise of the day ahead, as if it is readying itself for the people and things that will pass through it.

The chair was warm against my back. I hugged my knees and finished the tea, still looking out of the window, loving the feeling of being half-awake, cotton woolish and comfortable.
The marquee was already up at the back of the meadow. It was Thursday. In three days’ time Chin and Gibbo would be married. In seven days’ time the removal men would arrive. In eight days’ time every sign that we had ever lived in this house would be gone. Apart from the scratchy initials carved into the newel-post at the top of the stairs, ‘RFW ♥ HLW’: Robert Francis Walter loves Hester Lena Walter. My grandparents. And in just over a month’s time, I would be on the other side of the world, in a new city with a new life. I kept having to remind myself. It seemed utterly alien.

My room was bare, my books were in boxes, the clothes I hadn’t worn for ten years were packed into suitcases, and my wardrobe door hung open and sad. The plastic bags full of girlish letters and cards, crammed in behind curled-up shoes and dusty boots, were gone. The top shelf, home to a couple of wilting straw hats and an old Burberry mac with a coffee stain on it, was bare now, except for torn shreds of old lining paper, flapping over the side.

My dressing-table, which had been Elise Walter’s – an amazing contraption with a deep central space, tiny drawers rising up on either side, and three mirrored panels – was empty, the surfaces cleared of the dusty remains of my teenage beauty products, including a 1987 Body Shop gift basket of soap, Ice-Blue shampoo and Passionfruit shower gel. The wood was stained with circles that bore testimony to my vanity and that of my female forebears. The diamond-shaped mark to the left – had that been my grandmother’s crystal scent bottle or a hallmark of my youthful obsession with Laura Ashley’s Emma? The dull cloud-shape near the front was the result of an accident with nail-varnish remover, I knew that for sure.

The wardrobe and the dressing-table were staying behind. On one of her increasingly frequent visits, Simone Caldwell had been over the house and made a list of things she’d like
to buy from Mum and Dad. Before I’d found out about Mike I would have been furious that they could sell them too, but what would have been the point? Keeper House was crammed with furniture, and the rented bungalow in Danby just wouldn’t have room for it all. Mum also thought it would be nicer if some of it stayed in the house to keep it company. Kate didn’t need any more furniture. Mum and Dad were taking what they needed. Tom, Jess and I had helped ourselves to things we wanted, but none of us felt able to deck out our homes in Keeper House regalia. I certainly couldn’t imagine Tom’s stark Clerkenwell loft, with its breakfast bar and ergonomically-designed red plastic and chrome barstools, playing natural host to the worn chintz sofa in the side-room, or my great-grandfather’s rifle. We were going to see the new house on Sunday, after the bride and groom had left, and take with us some of Mum and Dad’s stuff. We hadn’t asked Mike if he wanted anything.

Kate had spoken to Mike a couple of times. He was arriving on Friday and I suppose if I’d been an outsider watching us, I’d have found our plans for his arrival pretty hilarious. Miles did. I’d arrived at Keeper House yesterday with Jess in the early evening, and as Mum, Dad, Kate, she and I were sitting with a drink before supper, we had the following conversation.

Mum: So Mike arrives on Friday – what time, John?

Dad: Er, not sure. I should think before lunch – his plane lands first thing in the morning.

Mum: So he’ll be pretty tired, though they say with jet lag that you have to stay awake otherwise your body clock becomes terribly disruptive. Well, I’m at the surgery that day so we’ll have to leave him a cold collation of some sort.

Kate: Mike loves ham, doesn’t he?

Mum: You’re quite right, Kate, he does. Or how about a
roast chicken? I could make that tomorrow. Darling, are you going to work on Friday?

Dad: No. I’ll be at the solicitor’s. Signing the completion papers.

Silence.

Mum: Right. Well, Chin’ll be here, but of course
she
won’t be much use. I think I’d better do a roast chicken
and
a ham, Kate, just in case – with potato salad and a green salad. That should be fine, shouldn’t it? Then, Lizzy darling, all you need to do is whack it on the table.

Kate: Good idea, but of course the real question is, what do we eat on Friday evening?

Mum: I know. I suppose Mike’ll be here for supper, and Mando is staying with us, Gibbo and Bozzer’ll be here too then they’ll go, so that’s [counts on fingers] four, six – you and Tom will come over, won’t you, Kate?

Kate: Yes, of course.

Mum: Eight, ten, eleven, including Mike – you think Rosalie’s a definite no? I assume she’s not coming although, of course, I’ve heard nothing about it from Mike. Typical.

Kate: Definite no.

Mum: You’re sure?

Kate: Pretty much, yup.

Mum: Right. Eleven. Twelve, if we ask Gavin back after the rehearsal at the church. Chin, thirteen. Oh dear that’s rather a lot, isn’t it?

Me: Don’t worry about me, I won’t be there.

Mum: What?

Jess: What?

Me: I’m going out to dinner with Miles.

Mum: Darling, you must be there!

Me: I’m really sorry, I’ll help beforehand and everything, and I’ll be back first thing in the morning [trail off realizing terrible mistake]…

Mum: You’ll
what
?

Me: I’m going to stay with him that night, but I’ll be back at the house by ten a.m., I promise.

Mum: You – you and Miles? Miles Eliot?

Me: Yes.

Mum: David’s brother? Is he your boyfriend?

Dad: More sherry, Kate?

Mum: You are
not
spending the night with Miles.

Me: It’s a bit late for that.

Jess: What? Are you shagging Miles? Oh, my God, look at you, you are.

Me: Oh, God.

Jess: You’re blushing. Oh, my God, you love him.

Me: I do not!

Mum: Darling, this is…well, wonderful. But…

Kate: Does David know?

Dad: Do I smell burning?

Mum: Be
quiet
, John. Does David know?

Me: Sort of. No one really knows. Please let’s not mention this again – we’re keeping it low-key and I don’t know why I told you.

Mum: Well I never. Goodness gracious. But – but you’re going to LA in a month’s time – what will you do then?

Me: I honestly have no idea.

Silence.

Mum: I was thinking a huge fish pie for Friday evening.

Kate: Great idea. But isn’t Mike allergic to haddock?

Mum: Quite right, of course he is. Back to the drawing-board.

It seemed that it was fine for Mum, Dad, Kate
et al
to rail against Mike, and quite right too, but now he was coming to the house and he was their relative, they had to suppress their feelings of murderous rage towards him
and worry about what to give him for lunch instead. Well, ha. He wouldn’t get that treatment from
me.
If it was up to me he’d get the haddock. Would he be rubbing his hands with glee at having pulled the wool over our eyes or would he slink around contritely? When I was in London I always thought being at home was relaxing and cosy. It never had been, even before all of this, I saw now. In between Mike being allergic to haddock and when Mum was working at the surgery that week there was always a layer of confusion. At the moment, though, it was just pushed beneath the surface because of Other Events.

I’d conveyed all of this to Miles on the phone late last night when I was in bed.

‘You know what I’m going to say,’ he’d said, laughing.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Vintage Walter situation.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘Change the record.’

‘So I’ll see you on Friday, then?’

‘You will. I can’t wait.’

‘I can’t wait either,’ Miles had said, lowering his voice. ‘I’m missing you so much already. I can’t wait to…’

‘Me too.’ I shivered.

‘Don’t wear any panties.’

‘“Panties” isn’t a word, Miles.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘It isn’t a word girls use. Trust me.’

Miles laughed. ‘Well, don’t wear whatever they are.’

‘Goodnight, Miles.’

‘Goodnight, Lizzy. I love you.’

He’d said that before, and I didn’t know what to say back. It was one of those things that made me worry, like I should be yelling, ‘I love you more, Pumpkin!’ back at him, but I couldn’t. Or ‘Hey, I love you too, but I’m not
in love
with
you,’ like an intensely groovy sixties film. It freaked me out a bit, as lots of things about this relationship did, late at night when I lay in bed, unable to sleep. In the morning it always seemed easier, more normal. But if Miles and I were going to be together, I’d have to accept that things like the David situation were weird, and that there was nothing I could do about them.

Anyway, I think I said something like ‘Mmm, yes,’ as I had the time before. Then I’d turned off the phone and put it on my bedside table, switched off the lamp and stared into the velvety darkness. It felt strange to be without Miles. It was one of the few nights we hadn’t been together since Richmond Park. It was quite nice, actually, lying alone in bed, having freedom to think, to dream, to wiggle my toes without him turning over and asking if I was awake, rolling on to me, possessing me with a determination that made me wonder sometimes if it was me he was in love with, or if anyone else might have done.

In the last month Miles and I had been virtually inseparable, and I knew him so well, it was like going home. We had little in common apart from our misspent teenage years: he was flash, he liked accountancy, fine dining, clubs and observing the proprieties, but also got bladdered in pubs with his mates and shouted obscenities at the football. I liked
Pop Idol, Will & Grace
, old films and dancing to my old mix tapes in my flat. However, we were more than willing to meet each other half-way because the benefits were obvious. We felt comfortable with each other, and I couldn’t think about the future – that I’d have to leave him behind just when I’d found him. All that sort of thing. That was one of the other things that kept me awake at night, and I would lie staring into blackness, his arms wrapped around me, and wondering about what I should do.

Jaden had called one night while Miles was over to tell
me that the weather was great, he was centred and toned and that he’d seen Cameron Diaz having brunch the previous day. Miles was in the shower, and Jaden was not pleased when I told him what was going on. ‘You’re making a big mistake, Lizzy,’ he said. ‘Well, you’re not if you’re having fun, but if you let this guy stop you coming to LA you are.’

‘I won’t,’ I said, nettled. ‘Mind your own business.’

‘Why are you with him? Why are you so keen on him?’

‘I just am,’ I said. How could I explain it to practical, efficient Jaden? ‘It just feels…nice. Kind of like it should be right.’

‘Yeah, but it doesn’t
feel
right, does it?’ Jaden said. ‘Or does it?’

‘Yes, it does,’ I said emphatically. ‘And keep out of it.’

‘It doesn’t feel like…oh, I don’t know.’ Jaden paused.

‘Like what?’ I prompted him.

‘Like you’re with him because he reminds you of where you grew up,’ Jaden said, speaking quickly, ‘and the guy who broke your heart and you can get both of those in one person so – hey presto! Let’s get physical!’

‘Absolutely not,’ I said. I could hear Miles coming out of the shower. ‘I’ve got to go, Jaden, I’ll call you later.’

‘Oh, you will,’ said Jaden. ‘Otherwise I’m calling you. To discuss your feelings. For a long, long time. Till you crack and beg for mercy. Thank you.’

‘Oh, go away,’ I said, as Miles put his arms round me, dripping all over the carpet.

‘What did that idiot want?’ Miles had asked.

I’d sighed. Clearly they were never going to be bosom buddies. In fact, Jaden’s call and the conversation about LA had caused our only row so far. Miles didn’t want me to go and made no effort to hide it from me. The making up had been worth it, though. That, and when, a week later, he’d asked about David.

We’d just got back from dinner. And were lying on the sofa in his flat, which was in a beautiful Victorian apartment block in Battersea. I’d taken Miles out to celebrate his pay rise, and we were rather drunk. Miles started to kiss me. ‘I want you,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ I said lazily.

‘I love you,’ he said, stroking my hair.

‘No, you don’t,’ I said, kissing him. ‘Ridiculous boy.’

‘I do,’ Miles said passionately. ‘I want everyone to know about us, Lizzy. When can we start telling people?’

‘I told you, Miles. After the wedding. It’s not the right time.’

Miles knelt on the sofa and took my hands. ‘I want to tell David before, though.’

I shifted back on the leather cushions. ‘Why?’

‘He’s going to realize something’s up, Lizzy. We’re not such good actors, you know.’

‘Is he still coming to the wedding?’ I asked, making a lightning bet with God that I would help the poor if he suddenly wasn’t.

‘Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said churlishly, cursing the Lord and all his Seraphim. ‘He and Chin are friends but—’