Love Always (26 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

It has been such a long winter, it’s sometimes felt as though it’d never end, but finally spring seems to be arriving. That cutting chill in the air that turns your hands red and numb and stings your face has gone, and though it’s still cold there is something in the air, a sense of something new.

It’s a cliché, therefore, to talk about new beginnings, especially as they don’t feel very new, but by the time a couple of weeks have passed and March is well under way, things are already different. Outwardly, nothing much has changed: I am still alone in the flat, not really sure what comes next. But there’s a difference this time. I keep making lists, and it helps. I’ve realised I have to keep myself busy, not just for my sanity, but for my business. As well as checking the post obsessively – no more ignoring letters from the bank – I have a filing system at the studio, where I carefully document every last piece of expenditure, and I like it; I feel virtuous, glad to be in control of this, at the very least.

I haven’t been in the studio much. I’ve been out meeting people, having coffee with PRs for free advice, dropping in on old friends, fellow jewellers, designers and people from round here who can help me, listening out for new shops and new shows that might help me. More green shoots. A company in China has been putting in a few orders with my friends, five-hundred-a-time T-shirts and hairbands, they might do the same for me one day, just with one necklace or bracelet and then I’m off again, and it’ll be all hands on deck. Liberty have been scouting around for some new, edgy designers, so I hear. A couple of shops are looking for different stock, and I’ve been visiting them, leaving my card, dropping back the next day with a stock list and some photos. Even though I’d rather be curled up in bed, or slouched on the sofa in baggy trousers and four jumpers, I always choose my outfits with care, put on heels and blow-dry my hair, press my cardigan and skirt so I look neat and fresh. I’m asking these people to buy into me, as well as the jewellery I make. It’s sometimes hard to have a smile and seem enthusiastic, but I just keep telling myself if I act as though it’s a new start, perhaps it’ll feel like that, after a while.

A week after that fateful morning at Arthur’s, I pop into the studio after walking back from Clerkenwell, where I’ve had a meeting with a woman who sells vintage and new jewel-lery. I’ve been walking everywhere lately, my shoes in a cloth bag in my satchel. I kick off my wet, muddy trainers and lean against the counter, going through my emails. In amongst the spam and the special deals from wholesalers there’s an email from Nigel Whethers, the solicitor Cathy put me in touch with.

Further to our telephone conversation, I would be happy to meet with you to discuss your filing for divorce. I enclose a breakdown of costs. I look forward to hearing from you.

Seeing it written down like that, I realise I’m not quite ready to reply to him, not just yet. I let out a sigh, which sounds like a long
plllllllllllffffffffffffffff
. A voice outside says, ‘
Pllllllllllllllffffffffffff
.’

‘Ben?’ I call. I run my hand over my forehead; it’s clammy. ‘Is that you?’

‘No, it’s Ivor the Engine,’ the voice says. ‘Who’s that? Thomas the Tank Engine? Is that you? I love the sound of your piston engine. Can I buy you a drink, handsome?’

‘Har de har,’ I say, as Ben comes in. He shoots me a cautious, quick look, and then as it’s clear I’m not in tears or rocking on the floor, he smiles. ‘You all right, sunshine? What’s up?’

‘Nothing much,’ I say, putting my sheepskin boots on. ‘Just got an email from a divorce lawyer, that’s all. Kind of weird to see it there in black and white on the screen.’

Ben puts two rolls of film down on the counter and leans next to me. ‘Sorry to hear it, Eric,’ he says. ‘That’s awful.’

‘I’m Ernie,’ I say. ‘You were Eric.’ I point at the photo of us as Morecambe and Wise on the board. ‘Remember? You borrowed Tania’s glasses and you couldn’t see a thing?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Ben rubs the bridge of his nose. Tania, like most people in East London, has black-framed glasses, perfect for ‘doing’ Eric Morecambe and other assorted old-school comics. Who knew? He pats me on the back. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m OK,’ I say. ‘I’m keeping busy. Think that’s the most important thing.’

‘Sure is,’ he says. He drums his fingers on the surface. ‘Look, do you fancy going for a drink tonight?’ There’s a pause, and he amends what he’s saying. ‘Not just with me. Er – it’s me, Jamie, Les and Lily – we’re going to the Pride of Spitalfields, do you fancy it?’

‘Oh.’ I don’t know what to say. ‘What about Tania?’

‘She’s busy. And – well, you know.’

I’d forgotten; she told me that awful day at Arthur’s, that she wasn’t working with him any more. I should have remembered. I just haven’t seen them. I blush. ‘Of course, sorry.’

But I feel awkward, I think because I don’t want to go. The idea of going out and having a good time at the moment is a bit of a step too far for me. It’s hard enough during the day, slapping on a smile and being professional. In the evenings I just want to eat and sleep. ‘Er – no, thanks,’ I say. Partly to avoid another long pause, I add, ‘You won’t miss me. Or Tania, if Jamie’s there. You can flirt with her to your heart’s content.’

Ben narrows his eyes and looks as if he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead he clears his throat. ‘I don’t have a crush on Jamie, for the fiftieth time.’

‘You do,’ I say. ‘You show her your teeth whenever she hands you the post. And you say, “Oh, thanks! Jamie!” Like she’s just split the atom.’

He pushes me. ‘You’re just jealous I’m spending the evening with Les. He’s promised to tell me all about his blank-verse poem set on the outskirts of Wolverhampton.’

‘No, seriously?’

‘Yes,’ Ben says. ‘It reminds me of that bit in Adrian Mole, where Adrian starts to write a novel, called—’

‘
Longing for Wolverhampton
,’ I finish. ‘Absolutely.’ There’s a noise outside in the corridor and we laugh, quietly.

Ben stands up. ‘No worries,’ he says. ‘I’d better go, anyway. Just wanted to check you were OK. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. Anything in the flat needs someone tall to get at, or whatever. I know you’re having a bad time. Just want to say I’m around. All right?’

I nod, my eyes prickling with tears. I’m surprised by them. ‘Yep. Thanks. Thanks – a lot.’

‘No worries,’ Ben says. ‘Bye, Eric.’

‘
Ernie
,’ I call, but he’s gone, and I go back to staring at the computer screen, then start checking my diary for a time to meet Nigel Whethers.

It’s the strangest thing, but all the time, I’ve been drawing too. Walking through Spitalfields, watching the way the bare branches arch against the light in London Fields, the snow-drops struggling through the ground. Watching the buds on the trees, the pansies in the window box opposite that have flowered all through winter, the little sparrows that hop away from me along our street. It all feels new and exciting, all of it, it always does at this stage, and I know once I start working out how to make it a reality it’ll be depressingly problematic, the designs will look flat and dull, and I’ll have to discard many of them. But I can’t worry about that now. I have to get on with it.

So after a couple of weeks go by, I’m surprised to find myself looking back and realising that I’m coping. I like being by myself, if I’ve got work to do. I like the challenge of it all. I was never sure about hiring the PR and giving up the stall, and I know I should have listened to my instincts now. The bank thinks my husband is still around to bankroll things and so they’re off my back for the moment. It’s going to be tight, but I know what I’m doing each day and why I’m doing it. And that feels good.

I haven’t seen Oli since last week, when I watched him walk away. We have spoken, though, briefly. ‘How are you?’

‘OK, yeah. You?’

‘Good, OK, yeah.’ He’s going to come round sometime and pick up some more of his things, and we’ll talk then. For the moment, the space is good. When I think about his face, laughing in the kitchen as I try to make scrambled eggs, or the hot, humid day we moved into Princelet Street, how we had sex in the kitchen, hurriedly taking each other’s clothes off, amazed that we had done this, that we were living together, for ever we thought, or even just doing karaoke together, singing Heart’s ‘Alone’ – his favourite song, Oli has a penchant for a ballad – sometimes I think I’m going to start crying, about how sad I am, how much I could miss him if I let myself. But that’s not how it happened. He left, he has given me this month’s rent, and moreover, he’s loaning me five thousand pounds to pay back the bank, and for that, at least, I am truly grateful, as well as for the memories we have. I just – I’m just not ready to totally move on from them yet.

There are two things on my list I still haven’t sorted: the diary, and Mum. Something is going on with her and I haven’t faced up to it. I was supposed to be having dinner with her the week after Oli left for good. She cancelled me at the last minute, and hasn’t been in touch since, though I’ve tried her every day. She’s great at being unavailable, she’s doing it now and I don’t know why. Does she know I’ve got the diary? What Octavia said? Does she really just not care that much? I’ve called her again this morning, and there’s no answer. ‘Hi, Mum,’ I said, my voice keen and bright. ‘Just at the studio, calling to say hello! Hope you’re well . . . Um, OK then! Bye.’

Actually, part of the reason I’m cross is because I’m relieved. I don’t like going to Bryant Court. I’d do a lot to avoid it, in fact. Since I left for college, twelve years ago now, I haven’t been back much. I’d spend holidays with friends or my college boyfriend or at Archie and Sameena’s in Ealing, or mostly down at Summercove. Bryant Court is my past, and I don’t like it much.

It’s not how small it is, or how dingy. It’s not how the outside of the thirties block looks rather stylish and then you get inside and it’s damp and musty-smelling, with an under-tone of something rotten, and always too hot or too cold. It’s not that when you arrive, you get the feeling Mum wants you to leave. It’s all those things and more. It’s the sense of detachment I feel from it – I lived there for almost twelve years of my life.

I look back on those years now and try and make sense of them. Was I just an uptight kid? Probably. But lately, when I look at my list of things to do, which I still keep by the bed, I see ‘
6. Mum 7. Find diary
’ and I realise how far I am away from doing those things. More and more as the days go by, I find myself thinking about Mum and the flat and our lives together there, and how strange it was. It doesn’t seem strange when you’re in it. It’s starting to, now.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A fortnight after the funeral, one Wednesday afternoon, I am in the studio. I have ticked several items off my To Do list for that day, and I’m feeling virtuous. I’ve called Mum: no answer. I’ve sent Arvind a
New Yorker
cartoon card to his new home, the one with the two snails and a remarkably similar-looking tape dispenser, and the first snail is saying to the second snail, ‘I don’t care if she is a tape dispenser. I love her.’ I have spoken to Clare Lomax today, to let her know I’ve made my first monthly repayment. I’ve phoned a couple more shops about the possibility of them taking my pieces and I’ll go and see them tomorrow. I’ve had two more orders today, and I’m extremely pleased. I need more to show them, though. And it needs to be great, really great.

As part of the new collection I have been trying to work on a new version of the jewelled headbands I did well with a couple of years ago, based on a photo I saw of a headband worn by a Maharani of Jaipur. The bands are black silk, and clasping gently on to the side of the head are grey and palest pink velvet floral shapes studded with diamanté. They can be worn to a wedding or a birthday party. They are really beautiful, at least they will be if I can get them right, but every time I try to add the diamanté it just looks tacky, amateurish. My fingers get covered in the glue, I prick my thumb twice on the needle as I try to sew them on, and eventually groan in frustration. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

I start to sketch alternatives. I flick through the V&A book of jewellery that I have by my side. Ben and Tania gave it to me for my birthday last year. I get out my cardfile of postcards, pictures of different pieces of jewellery, different paintings and images that inspire me, everything from Rita Hayworth to a portrait of a very cross-looking Medici duchess, decked out in the most beautiful rubies. I jab my pencil into the soft paper and stop, looking up around me, blinking hard.

It’s quiet here this afternoon. The writers’ collective is meeting in the basement this evening, and they are always extremely raucous – apparently they have a lot to be angry about, and it often involves drinking a lot of beer. I can hear people pulling rails of clothes over the road in the market below but that’s it. My eyes are heavy, with a sense of peace, but I’m not especially tired. My hand steals to my neck as I stare into nothingness and I realise I’m clutching Cecily’s ring.

I’ve taken to putting it on every day since I got back, I don’t know why. I like wearing it. It’s unusual. Moreover, I like the fact that it was hers, and that Granny wore it all those years. I know nothing about Cecily, except from those pages of the diary, but I have this and I like wearing it.

I pick up my pencil and start sketching the ring from memory as I can’t see it, nestled in the hollow at the base of my neck. The flowers are so pretty – simple and attractive. I join the tiny gold buds studded with tiny diamonds together, linking them together like a daisy chain, in a row. It is one of the most pleasing things I have done for a while, but I’m not sure I can execute it myself – it’s too elaborate, and I may have to hire someone else to work it out. A section of it would work as a pendant, as well. A charm bracelet?

Necklace? My pencil skates busily over the white paper, and the scratching sound echoes in the silence, broken only by the occasional noise from the street below. There’s something there, I don’t know what it is. The links . . . the flowers . . . Cecily’s ring, perhaps I should use the ring as the centrepiece? My pencil is getting blunter as I push heavily down onto the pad, sketching, rubbing out, resketching . . . My mind is clear of everything else troubling it. I love this, the fact that you can escape into your imagination, use a part of your brain that isn’t affected by everything else in your life. I lost it for a while. It’s so good to have it back; even if what results is rubbish, just to know I still love doing it is the most important thing. And the voice in my head, sounding remarkably like Clare Lomax, that has been telling me I ought to give up the studio and save on the rent, is silenced. I need a place to come to, to work. This is my job, and if I’m going to take it seriously, I ought to have an office. If Oli’s not coming back we don’t need the flat, do we? I’d give that up before the studio. Somehow, that clarifies things for me.

And suddenly, as I am drawing furiously, there comes a soft tapping at the door.

‘Natasha, are you there?’ a voice calls.

I unfurl my legs, stiff and aching from the cold and from being in the same position for so long. I roll my head slowly around my neck, and it crunches satisfyingly.

‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s me,’ says the voice. ‘Mummy.’

What’s she doing here? The hairs on the back of my neck stand up; my hand flies to my throat. ‘Come in,’ I say, after a moment.

She peeks around the door, her dark fringe and long eyelashes appearing first, like a naughty child, her green eyes sparkling. ‘Hello, darling. My little girl.’

‘Mum?’ I say, standing up. ‘Wow. I’ve been calling you for days. Hello! What are you doing here?’

‘I was in the area,’ she says. ‘I wanted to see you. I’ve been rather un-loco parentis lately.’ She gives a tinkling laugh. ‘Awful joke. I’m sorry, should I have called?’

‘No, of course not,’ I say, sounding ridiculously formal. My heart is beating fast, and my palms are slick. ‘It’s fine. I’ve been wondering where you were. I haven’t seen you since the funeral and—’

Mum frowns. ‘Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?’

She advances into the room, arms outstretched. She looks fantastic, as always, skinny jeans tucked into brown suede leather boots, a thick grey cardigan-coat and a long floral scarf wrapped many times round her neck and tied in a knot. Her skin is gleaming, her nails are beautiful, her hair is shining and soft. She wraps me in her arms.

‘Poor girl.’

She squeezes me tight. Her scent is heavy; it makes me nauseous. Suddenly I want to push her away. I’m repulsed by her.

I step back. She clutches my hands, then reaches into her large canvas bag. ‘Bought you a little something,’ she says, handing me a box of tiny, very expensive-looking cheese crackers in a beautifully printed box.

‘Thanks,’ I say, bemused by this gift, which is so like Mum – there were months when we thought we wouldn’t be able to pay the rent in Bryant Court, but she would think nothing of buying a free-range chicken from Fortnum & Mason for fifteen pounds and then not know how to cook it. I put the biscuits down on the little sink. ‘Have you eaten? Do you want some coffee – or tea?’

‘Tea would be lovely,’ she says, and I suddenly realise what’s been bothering me. She’s nervous too. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her nervous.

‘Great.’ We are silent for a moment. We don’t know how to do this. I look around for a distraction. Luckily, I remember Ben has borrowed my teapot.

‘I’ll get the teapot.’ I get up. ‘Back in a second.’ She is looking around the room, and she hums blithely in agreement when I say this. My hand is on the door and I say, ‘Mum – we do need to talk, you know.’

Mum’s expression does not change, but there’s something in her eyes that I can’t define. ‘Oh, darling, really?’

I realise this is a stupid way to begin. ‘Yes, really. Look, hold on.’

I dash down the corridor and knock on their door. Ben flings it open.

‘Aha,’ he says. ‘Hello there.’

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Sorry to disturb you. Have you got my teapot?’

‘Oh, right. Yeah, of course,’ he says. ‘Sorry, forgot to put it back. Hang on a second.’ He comes back with the pot and a teacake, wrapped in blue foil. ‘We’ve got one spare,’ he says. ‘Have it.’

I take the teacake. ‘Thanks.’

‘Was going to drop by later. We’re going for a drink.’

‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘Mum’s just turned up. Soon, though. I haven’t seen you for ages.’

‘I know, you’re busy,’ he says. ‘But it’s good.’ He smiles, and I know he knows. ‘Just checking you’re not rocking at home in a ball by the radiator.’ He scratches his curly hair and it bounces; I smile.

‘Well, thanks again,’ I say. ‘I’m OK. I’m not going to start gibbering and weeping all over you.’

‘You’re allowed to, you know,’ he says. ‘You’re so in touch with your feelings, Benjamin,’ I say. ‘I’m a cold-hearted bitch, however. So bog off.’

He smiles, and then I hear Tania’s voice in the background. ‘Hi, Nat. How you doing?’

In the back of my buzzing brain this confuses me. I thought she wasn’t working with him any more. Perhaps she’s just popped over to see him, he is her boyfriend after all. ‘I’m good,’ I call back to her.

‘See you guys later then,’ I say. ‘Coolio. Sorry about tonight.’

‘No probs,’ he says equably, sticking a piece of toast in his mouth. He reaches out and pats my shoulder. ‘Hey. You’re not cold-hearted. You’re lovely. Remember that. Keep your chin up, Nat.’ His voice is muffled as he closes the door, almost abruptly, and I’m left standing in the corridor. On the front of the door is written, in black marker pen:

Ben Cohen
Photographer & Male Escort

I’ve never noticed this before and it makes me smile. I’m still smiling as I walk back into the studio. Mum is looking at my drawing pad, the sketch of the ring and the necklace; she jumps guiltily.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You gave me a fright.’

‘Sorry,’ I say. I fill the kettle up and then I take a deep breath and turn to face her. The unexpectedness of this encounter makes me bold. I haven’t had time to worry about it. ‘So where have you been? I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Mum runs one hand carefully through her hair. ‘Look, I’m sorry. It’s been hard for me.’

‘You should have called me.’

She smiles, almost sweetly. ‘Darling, you don’t understand.’

‘I don’t?’ I say, looking at her.

‘No, you don’t. Sorry, Natasha.’

‘Try me,’ I say, opening my arms wide. ‘You’ve lost your mother, I’ve lost my grandmother. My marriage is ended. You’re my mum. Why can’t you talk to me? And why can’t I talk to you? I’m not saying I’m a great daughter, but . . . where’ve you
been
?’

‘Because . . .’ She shakes her head, scrunching up her face.

‘Oh, you don’t understand. You don’t! I know you think I’m a terrible mother, but –’ her voice is rising into a whine – ‘you don’t understand!’

A kind of despair tugs at me – this is my mother, my mother. ‘Octavia said you were the last person anyone would ask for help,’ I say icily. ‘She was right, wasn’t she?’

‘Octavia? We’re listening to what
Octavia
says now, are we? Right.’ Mum’s eyes dart around the room, undermining the bullish tone in which she says this. ‘Funny, darling, I thought you and I were in rare agreement about Octavia. She’s the last person I’d ask for help.’

This is going wrong, all wrong. ‘She just said it, that’s all. I’m not saying I like her, it’s—’

Mum interrupts. ‘Listen, Natasha. She’s her mother’s daughter. And her father’s. Hah. I don’t care for their opinions, to be honest. Neither should you.’

I’m standing behind the counter. She is facing me. ‘Octavia said something else, too,’ I say, nodding as if to will myself along, and her eyes meet my gaze. ‘Octavia said . . .’ My voice breaks. ‘Mum, she said you pushed Cecily that day. You pushed her down the steps.’

My mother’s eyes widen a little, and she says, with a catch in her throat, ‘OK, OK.’

She paces around, two steps forward, turns, two steps back. I watch her. ‘You think I killed her,’ she says. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

‘They all think –’ I begin, but she interrupts me again. ‘Not them.’ She holds up her hand. ‘Not them, Natasha. You. Answer me. Is that what you’re saying?’

I wipe my hands on my jeans. It is so quiet. Downstairs, a door slams. She is looking right into my eyes.

When it comes, the word slides out of my mouth quietly. ‘Yes,’ I say, not looking at her. ‘That’s what I’m saying.’

* * *

My mother doesn’t react immediately. We face each other in the cold, darkening room. ‘Well, that’s very interesting,’ she replies. ‘Very interesting. I guess I always knew this moment would come.’

She says it lightly, as if it’s of moderate interest, and hugs herself a little tighter, her head on one side. She looks so beautiful, but I am suddenly revolted by her cool, ravishing beauty, her cunning hooded eyes, her total lack of trustworthiness, and I remember how good an actress she really is, has always been.

‘You knew this moment would come?’ I say. I back up, stand against the wall, my hands on the cool white plaster.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘When you finally went over to their side.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Nearly a month since Mummy died, and you’ve done it. I knew it.’

‘I’m not on anyone’s “side”.’ I swallow. ‘It’s just they say that—’

‘“They”?’ my mother says, smiling. ‘Who are “they”, please?’

‘Well –’ I stutter. ‘Octavia and – Louisa, and – the rest of them.’

She nods. ‘Exactly.’ Her eyes flash a little as she sees my expression. ‘That’s very nice. And my own daughter believes them.’ She leans back on the counter. ‘Louisa has no evidence, you know. This is a land grab, don’t you see that?’ She raises her eyebrows so they disappear into her tinted fringe. ‘They’re all trying to ruin me, to make themselves feel better, now Mummy’s gone.’