Losing Me (27 page)

“I’d keep them in a heartbeat, but Mike’s the problem. Now that we’re older, he thinks we should restrict ourselves to emergency care only.” She explained that he was now working only part-time at the fire department in preparation for retirement. “He’s determined for us to have more time to ourselves.”

“I totally hear you, but couldn’t you ask him?” She was aware of the pleading tone in her voice. “It’s not going to be forever . . . six weeks maybe.” She’d pulled the figure out of the air. She hadn’t the foggiest notion how long Tiffany would be in hospital.

•   •   •

Maureen called as Barbara was getting into her car. “I just spoke to one of Tiffany’s doctors. It’s not looking good. She’s still on the ventilator. And there’s a possibility of serious brain damage. They’re planning to do a load of tests today.”

There was nothing to say. “OK, let me know as soon as you have any more news.”

“Will do. How’s Troy?”

“Pretty traumatized, but he seems to have taken to Carole. I really like her. She’s great with both of them. I don’t suppose there’s any way you could put some pressure on her to keep Troy and Lacie for a bit longer? I hate the idea of them being moved again—Troy in particular. I think the stress would be too much.”

Maureen agreed. “But it’s Mike who’s going to need convincing.” She said she would call and try a bit of gentle emotional blackmail on him.

When Barbara got home she found a voice mail message from Frank from the night before. “Just checking in. Nothing urgent. Still bat-shit busy here, but all looking good. By the way, I Skyped with Jess earlier. Did you know that Ben was seeing somebody? That should cheer him up a bit. Oh, and she told me about the kid from your school and his mum. Terrible thing. I don’t know what to say. Hope you’re OK.”

By now it was lunchtime. Barbara made herself a couple of slices of cheese on toast and, almost as a reflex, switched on the TV. She would spend the afternoon vegging out in front of some made-for-TV courtroom drama and getting more maudlin. She needed to get out of herself—one of Rose’s favorite phrases.

Not that watching crappy TV would really take her out of herself. What she craved was inane chatter, some gossip and a giggle.

Camp David. She picked up her phone and spooled through her contacts list. Could he possibly fit her in at such short notice? she asked the receptionist. Funnily enough, they’d just this minute had a cancelation. He could see her in fifteen.

Camp David—he of David and Jonathan in Hackney Fields—welcomed Barbara with double kisses and, when he saw her roots, a theatrical look of disgust. “Mrs. S, please don’t tell me you’ve actually been leaving the house like that. Come on—let’s get you sorted out.” He called out to one of the assistants, “Tracey, a gown for my lady.”

Tracey brought her
Hello!
and
OK!
and cucumber-infused water to “flush out her toxins.” While the colorist painted her hair in “something a bit more tonal than usual,” Barbara sipped her water and soaked up the showbiz gossip in
OK!
while in the background Cher belted out “The Shoop Shoop Song.” Half an hour later her color was cooked and she was at the backwash being shampooed. “Water temperature OK for you?” Tracey inquired. Barbara said it was perfect. As Tracey got busy rinsing off the excess hair dye, she rattled on about her hen night the previous weekend. A group of them had gone to Amsterdam and her friends had made her go around the city carrying a large inflatable willy. “But it was a giggle, and to be honest, I was too stoned to care.

“Would you like a head massage?” Tracey said as she combed conditioner through Barbara’s hair.

“That would be lovely,” Barbara said.

The massage lasted ten minutes. Barbara relished every stroke and touch. At one point she felt herself drifting off. Barbara was a great believer in the therapeutic power of nonsexual touching. There wasn’t enough of it.

Tracey towel dried Barbara’s hair and took her over to one of the big leather chairs, where David was waiting. He asked if she’d like something else to drink. “A cappuccino would be great,” she said.

“Trace—if you please, a frothy coffee for Lady Barbara.”

He ran his fingers through her wet hair, flicked it to one side and then the other, pushed it behind her ears and then brought it forward again. He said he was loving the color and suggested that she save the white roots for Halloween. He swept her fringe back off her face. “You, know I’ve been thinking about your hair. . . .”

He probably hadn’t been thinking about it at all. But she loved the way David always managed to make her feel as if she were the only client in the salon. “So I’m thinking we should keep the basic bob, but maybe cut in some layers and perhaps go for something a bit more choppy—something with a bit more movement. It’s not doing very much at the moment, is it?”

Was hair meant to actually
do
anything? But Barbara trusted David and said she was happy to leave the decision to him.

For the next hour, he wheeled around on his stool snipping and slicing, fretting about getting her fringe right. She liked it left long, but not so long that it went in her eyes. He told her all about Tony, the new man in his life. He’d bought David pecs implants for his birthday. The two of them were also planning a trip to the Antarctic to see the penguins. He turned to wave good-bye to a client. “Bye, darling. See you soon.” He wheeled his stool close to Barbara. “Eighteen stone that one was. Full-body lipo. I kid you not. Lost half her body weight.”

The stylist working next to David had overheard.

“David, you can be such a bitch.”

“Hark at you, baldy. I suppose you do realize that in that turtleneck you look like a roll-on deodorant.”

Barbara was laughing so hard that David had to stop cutting.

“So anyway,” he said as he started up again. “Me and Tony are thinking about getting married.”

“Is your mum OK with it?” Barbara knew that David’s mum was a strict Catholic.

“She’s all for it. Says she sees no reason why gays shouldn’t be as unhappy as straight people.”

Being around the fun and repartee at the salon always cheered Barbara up, but today it had really taken her out of herself. She felt lighter. Less doom-laden. The hit wouldn’t last long, but she intended to hang on to it for as long as she could.

•   •   •

Back home, she was about to call Jack to reschedule lunch when he called her.

“I just wanted to find out if there was any news,” he said. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that poor woman and those children.”

She told him how much she appreciated him calling. “Troy’s pretty traumatized, But Tiffany, the mother, is in a very bad way. She’s on a ventilator. They’re talking about brain damage.”

“Good God. I’m so sorry.” He sounded genuinely upset. “Look . . . say if you’re not up to it, but I thought after everything you’ve been through, you might fancy meeting for a drink?” He said Freddie had gone on a school trip to see
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
and wouldn’t require picking up until later.

She didn’t hesitate. She’d pretty much come down from her trip to the hairdresser and all she wanted to do was talk. “You know what? I would absolutely love a drink.”

They arranged to meet at the Queen Victoria, which was pretty much midway between Islington and Hackney.

Since neither of them was driving, they decided to share a bottle of wine. “You’ve changed your hair,” he said as they sat down. “Suits you.”

“Oh, I just had my roots done, that’s all. According to my hairdresser, they were frightening the horses.”

Despite playing down the compliment, she couldn’t help feeling flattered. Was Jack Dolan flirting with her?

“Well, I never noticed. And, anyway, at least you’ve got hair.” He leaned forward to show her how he was thinning on top. She told him to behave and said that for a man of his age he had a great head of hair.

“So how are you doing?” he said, pouring them each a glass of wine.

“I can’t stop feeling guilty,” she said. “I should have kept an eye on Troy. I should have called in at the flat, just to check everything was OK.”

“Suppose you had visited. You might well have come away thinking all was well and the boyfriend could still have turned up later and gone berserk. It was the family’s social worker who failed, not you.”

“That’s what everybody says—even the social worker.”

“And has it occurred to you that
everybody
might be right?”

“Possibly,” she said, managing a smile.

“It can’t be easy going through all this with your husband thousands of miles away.”

“It’s not easy. But I’m used to coping on my own.”

He didn’t say anything. It was as if somehow he’d sensed that she was troubled about Frank’s absence and was inviting her to open up.

“I won’t say it hasn’t been hard sometimes,” she went on, “particularly when the kids were young and Frank was away for months at a time making some epic about the Palestinian struggle.”

“I can imagine.”

“But as he keeps reminding me, I knew what I was getting into when I married him. I never complained. I just got on with it. But then . . .” She found herself telling him about the panic attacks. “I’d just lost my job, I wasn’t well and Frank was due to start filming in Mexico. I begged him not to go, but he went anyway. I’m so angry. It’s pretty much the first time I’ve ever asked anything of him.”

“I think you have every right to be angry.”

“Maybe. But sometimes I don’t believe that.”

“I’m not with you.”

“Let’s put it this way. I have rather a lot of emotional baggage.”

“Like what?”

“It’s all very boring. These days I even bore myself. Honestly, you don’t want to hear it.”

“Try me.”

Usually she would have held back. She wasn’t in the habit of sharing personal stuff with people she didn’t know. But she felt herself drawn to this man. She’d seen how he was with Freddie. There was a warmth and kindness about him—an air of old-fashioned uprightness and integrity. She could be wrong, but she felt she could trust him.

“Well, long story short . . .” She heard herself telling him more about her marriage, her dad, Rose’s inability to show her much love or affection.

“You were an innocent child who deserved to be loved. Surely you realize that?”

“Of course I do. Intellectually. But sometimes I still think I don’t deserve to be loved.”

He nodded. “Yes, I can see how that might be.” His face broke into a smile. “Remind me to tell you about Nanny Fredricks sometime. Wonderful woman. She used to hit my sister and me with a butter pat. If we’d been really naughty, she made us have a cold bath.”

“How frightfully English,” Barbara said.

“Didn’t do us any harm, though. In fact, I developed a rather fine stiff upper lip.”

She peered at his lip and agreed that it was indeed a fine specimen. “So, Jack, how old are you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Not at all. I’m sixty-three.”

“Do you mind being it?”

“My body creaks and aches. Death seems more of a reality—particularly since Faye died. But no, on the whole I don’t mind. Nothing seems as urgent as it once did. I’ve got nothing left to prove. All in all, I’m more at peace with the world.”

She hesitated before asking her next question, but went ahead anyway. “Would you be offended if I said that the world has treated you quite well and perhaps that’s why you’re at peace with it?”

“You mean I have money?”

“Partly that. But also you’re happy to be retired. You’ve achieved all you wanted to achieve. I haven’t. I lost my job way before I was ready to go. I know I’m nearly sixty, but I don’t feel old. I have so much more to give and nobody will let me.”

“Then you have to work out some other way of doing it.”

“I know, but right now I’m stumped.”

“You’ve been through a lot recently. Give it time.”

He topped up her glass.

“So were you and Faye happy?”

“Extremely. Without wishing to appear smug, we adored each other. We had our ups and downs like most couples, but we got through them.”

“You must miss her.”

“Every day. But one does one’s best to move on. Being in London doesn’t help. All our friends are in Gloucestershire. I barely know anybody here. And adore Freddie as I do, there are times when I could do with a bit of adult company.”

“I bet. . . . So how’s Freddie doing?”

“Not too well I’m afraid. Actually, I was wondering if I could ask a favor.” He explained that for once Sally and Jeremy were both in the country. So if she felt up to it, maybe they could all get together to discuss Freddie’s future over a family dinner. “I do a tolerable shepherd’s pie, and it makes much more sense us all getting together rather than me relaying information back. But if you don’t feel up to it, please feel free to say no.”

Barbara said she would be more than delighted to come over. They made a date for that Friday.

•   •   •

When she arrived, Jack was in the middle of making a salad to go with the shepherd’s pie, which was browning in the oven. “Sally and Jeremy shouldn’t be long. They’ve both texted to say they’ve left work. Meanwhile, Freddie’s up in his room, sulking. I don’t know what we’re going to do with him. He simply refuses to accept that he’s not a dunce.”

“How about if I talked to him?”

“Would you? As you’re a teacher, he might listen to you.” Jack said he’d finish making the salad and call Freddie down.

“The shepherd’s pie smells amazing,” Barbara said, sitting down at the breakfast bar.

“I hope it’s OK. I taught myself to cook—after a fashion—when Faye got ill. Before that she always said that I needed a map to find the kitchen. I may not be any great shakes, but I’ve come to rather enjoy cooking. I find it incredibly soothing.”

Barbara said that her love affair with food preparation had ended when she had children. “I started off cooking from scratch, but they were both picky eaters and of course they always demanded different things. Fool that I was, I gave in to them. Then they’d leave half of it and I’d think why do I bother? In the end I resorted to fish sticks, beans and sausages. They were much happier, and so was I.”