Love Always (38 page)

Chapter Forty

When I reach the studio there is a new receptionist, a Breton-striped-top-wearing boy, very skinny, with a mop of curly hair on top of his head, shaved at the sides. He is wearing the obligatory thick black glasses that all boys and girls in East London must wear, from Tania to Arthur to Tom and Tom, the two gay guys who run Dead Dog Tom’s, the hottest new bar in Shoreditch just down the road from the studio. I sometimes wonder what would happen if someone wore frameless steel Euro-style glasses in Shoreditch / Spitalfields – would an invisible forcefield shatter them?

‘Hiyaa,’ he says, not looking up from his phone. ‘How’re you.’

This isn’t a question, more a rapped-out courtesy. ‘Hi. Where’s . . . Jocasta?’ I say. ‘Or Jamie?’

‘I’m Jamie’s like brother?’ the beautiful boy says. ‘Dawson? She’s not well today, her skanky boyfriend gave her food poisoning? So I’m filling in for her?’

I can’t keep track of Jamie’s love life. I thought she was with the dodgy pockmarked Russian millionaire and surely millionaires don’t get food poisoning. ‘Oh, right,’ I say.

‘Lily’s having an open studio this afternoon, so she asked Jamie to get someone to cover for her.’ Dawson’s eyes shift away from me, and then his face lights up. ‘Hey, you!’

‘Hey,’ says a voice behind me. ‘Oh. Hi, Nat.’

I swing round, my heart thumping loudly. There, in the doorway, is Ben, and again I adjust to the new person he is, shorn of hair. The person I kissed three nights ago. I stare at him, drinking in the sight of him.

‘Hi, Ben,’ I say. ‘Hey,’ he says, taking his backpack off his shoulders. He barely glances in my direction. ‘Hi, Dawson,’ he says. ‘How’s it going? What are you doing here?’

He high-fives Dawson, who smiles at him and stands up, excited. ‘Ben, my man. Good to see you! Hey, thanks for those links! I checked out that photographer dude, he was amazing? That shit of those dead trees, and the foil – it was so . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘So
relevant,
you know?’

‘Good, good.’ Ben is nodding. ‘How’s Jamie?’

‘Good, she’s good. Well, she’s not, she’s being sick every five minutes, but she’s good otherwise.’

Ben grimaces. ‘Oh, dear. Tell her I said get well soon, and she should definitely lose the boyfriend.’ He turns to me. ‘Hey.’

I lean forward. ‘Yeah. So—’

‘See you later,’ he says, and turns away, making for the stairs.

I follow him. ‘Ben,’ I say, as we curl up to the first floor, out of earshot. ‘How – how are you?’

He nods vigorously. ‘I’m good, good.’

‘Look—’ I take a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry about the other night.’

A small muscle on his cheek twitches in Ben’s lean face. ‘Yeah, no problem.’

‘I meant to text you . . .’ I say lamely. ‘To apologise for running off like that. But I . . .’

I trail off. He is still as granite, watching me. Was it really Thursday that we kissed? It seems so long ago. He seems like a different person, tall and forbidding. He’s hugging his backpack to him. ‘I didn’t text you either,’ he says. ‘It’s fine. Look, I’d better get on . . .’

‘Fine, of course,’ I say. I feel almost winded in the face of his hostility, it’s like running into a brick wall. ‘See you – see you in a bit.’

I go into my studio and shut the door, trying to breathe normally, but my chest is rising and falling alarmingly quickly. I lean against the door, listening to the silence, and then I shake myself down, go over to the counter, and get my stuff out. I write my list for the day, get out my sketchpad; sort out some more filing, turn on my laptop. I flick through the post. The details of my little stand at the trade fair in June have come through; I can see my position on the map, and it’s OK. There’s a sale on at the place I get my clasps, hooks, earring hoops. A letter from the bank, inviting me to a seminar on Small Business Management. I smooth it out flat and put it in my in-tray, thinking I should go. The last letter is from Emilia’s Sister, the shop on smart Cheshire Street. They’ve sent through an order. An old-fashioned, paper order! It’s like a novelty item, beautifully printed, and I stare at it in disbelief. They want twenty necklaces, thirty charm bracelets, some of the dangling rose earrings I’m having made . . .

There’s a knock on the door. ‘Come in!’ I shout happily, and then look up. It’s Ben.

‘Hey,’ I say, putting down the order and picking up the broom which I use to sweep the floor. I brush it nervously. I don’t know why I’m surprised it’s Ben knocking at the door: it’s always Ben. Always
used
to be. ‘What’s up?’

He shuts the door. ‘Hi, Cinders. I just wanted to say sorry for being a cock.’

I laugh nervously. ‘What are you talking about?’

Ben rubs one eye; he looks tired. ‘The last however many days, basically. I have been a cock. Shouting at you . . . Kissing you . . . Not calling you . . . Just now . . . Real cock behaviour. I know you’re having a bad time at the moment. I shouldn’t have taken advantage.’

For a brief microsecond I let myself think of his lips on mine again, the feeling of his skin, his tongue in my mouth . . . I shake my head, smiling.

‘You’re many things, Ben Cohen, but you’re not a cock,’ I say. ‘I should have called. Cleared the air.’

‘No,’ he says, smiling back at me. ‘I should have done.’

‘I behaved really badly. I’m the one who . . . who ran off. And I was drunk and hysterical. I’m sorry.’

Ben laughs. ‘You weren’t drinking alone, you know.’

‘It makes me feel better if you were as drunk as me,’ I say. He pauses. ‘Let’s say I was, and call it quits.’

‘Um – yes,’ I say. ‘Definitely.’

I stare at him, unsure of what to say next – so, is it normal between us now? Is that it?

‘So it’s . . . it’s OK?’ Ben says, watching me. ‘Yes of course,’ I say. I want to explain. ‘Look – me and Oli – when I ran off like that, ’cause he rang, it wasn’t what you think.’ And then I stop. Because it is what he thinks. ‘I mean, you know. We’re still married, we have to talk to each other . . .’

There’s a silence. I look up at him. ‘I just want you to be happy, Nat,’ he says.

Suddenly, I desperately want . . . No, this is stupid. I’m leaning on the diary and the post, and I stand upright and brush myself off, as if I’m dusty. Ben blinks, as though he can’t remember why he’s here, and I think to myself again how tired he looks.

‘Hey,’ I say, more than anything else to have some sound in the deathly quiet of the studio. ‘So, I found the diary.’

I don’t expect him to remember. ‘Cecily’s diary?’ he says immediately. ‘I’ve been wondering about that. Did your mum have it?’

‘Yes . . .’ I stare at him. ‘She did – how on earth did you know that?’

He shrugs. ‘I just guessed she probably would. Knowing your mum, even as little as I do. I thought it’d turn up sooner or later.’ His voice is kind of flat.

‘That’s amazing,’ I say. I smile, I can’t help it. He knows us all, knows me better than I know myself. And he makes it sound so simple. ‘Well, yeah – she did have it.’

‘Have you read it?’

‘Yes. Last night, in fact.’

Ben gives me a sideways glance, as if he’s reluctant to ask, but can’t help himself. ‘So, what’s in it? Is Jesus buried in your garden?’

‘Um—‘ I take a deep breath, and it catches in my throat. I’m not sure how to explain it, and I can’t think about it without thinking of the last page, of my mother and Cecily on the morning she died, sitting on the bed together, promising each other that everything’s going to be OK. ‘It’s – it’s that thing of thinking you know someone and it turns out you don’t.’ I try to explain. ‘Like you saying “knowing your mum”. That’s what’s awful about it. I don’t think I know her at all. I think all these years, we’ve all looked at her in the wrong way. She went through some bad stuff, and it turns out the people who should have been looking after her – well, they weren’t. At all.’

I am shaking slightly as I say this. ‘Have you talked to her?’ Ben asks, fiddling with a bit of paper, shooting glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

I shake my head. ‘She’s gone off for a few days.’

‘You need to talk to someone about it.’

Not me.
I can feel him, ever so politely, pushing away from me. ‘It’s fine,’ I say, I can’t explain that I couldn’t wake him, it sounds so stupid. ‘I’m trying to get hold of Guy – old family friend, he – oh, it’ll be fine. Just – stuff to think about.’

I want to talk to him about it so much, though. I want his advice, as though it’s back to normal in the studio and we’re chatting about all and sundry the way we used to, before Oli’s affair and Granny’s death and before he split from Tania and everything got weird. I want to say, Read this diary, I want to know what you think, what you think I should do, for God’s sake, because I have no idea myself and it’s freaking scary.

And I know I can’t, because everything’s changed, not least our relationship.

Most of all I want him to read the diary to get to know Cecily, to see what she was like, to hear her voice. I want more people to know her. Ben would get her. He’d like her.

‘Look,’ he says, cutting into my thoughts. ‘I can’t stay.’ He takes something out of his back pocket. ‘I just came to give you something.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Right.’

‘I had these printed out for you,’ he says, handing me a manila envelope. ‘But I didn’t get round to giving them to you . . . They came out pretty well considering how much we’d drunk.’

I tip the envelope open. ‘Oh . . . wow,’ I say, grinning. ‘I’d forgotten, thank you so much.’

They’re the photos of the necklace Claire, that girl in the Ten Bells, was wearing on Thursday, the necklace I’ve been working on adapting, using Cecily’s ring and some of the duck-egg-blue laser-cut birds I’m waiting for today. I gaze at them with pleasure. He’s had them properly printed, with white edges, and each shows the necklace perfectly. I flick through them.

‘Thank you so much, Ben,’ I say, gathering them up. ‘They’re – wow, they’re just what I needed. You are great.’ I glance at the last one. ‘Oh. That’s of me!’

I am raising my glass, my hair falling over my shoulders, and I am smiling, clearly one or two drinks up. He looks at it, and the muscle on his now-smooth cheek twitches again.

‘Oh. Yes, it is,’ he says. He pauses, just a second. ‘Yes – I thought you’d like one with Cecily’s ring on it, to see how it looks next to the others.’

‘That’s great, Ben, thanks so much.’ I come round to his side of the counter and squeeze his arm. ‘You’re a great man.’ I look at him again. ‘With short hair.’

He laughs, but there’s a terseness to his tone. ‘Right. Look—’

‘Thanks again,’ I say, as he turns to leave. Emboldened by this new, more friendly footing, I say, ‘Um – do you want to grab some lunch, or something? I’d love to tell you about the diary. Get your advice, and . . .’

I trail off. Ben looks down at the photos in my hand. ‘I don’t think so,’ he says gently. ‘Nat, I think you kind of need to talk to Oli, or Jay or someone, about that stuff first, not me.’

Taking a little step back, I nod. ‘F-fine,’ I say. ‘You’re right. But – honestly, Ben, it really is over with me and Oli. I’ve moved in with Jay. It was – he did come round that night, but he shouldn’t have. It’s over,’ I say, not really knowing why I say it. ‘It really is.’

The tension in the room is suddenly palpable. ‘I wasn’t asking if it was or it wasn’t,’ Ben says. He taps his forehead furiously with one finger, as if he’s trying to release something in his brain. ‘Nat – I’m not stupid. You don’t need any more complications in your life at the moment. Once again – I’m sorry I was a cock. We were drunk, I shouldn’t have said that stuff to you, and everything else, that night. Let’s just forget about it.’

And everything else.
I am blindsided. ‘Right, then.’

‘Glad you like the photos. See you soon.’

He closes the door gently behind him once again, raising his hand as a farewell. I watch the closed door. I want to run after him, put him right, but what would I say? Yes, I slept with Oli, yes, we were drunk, no, I’ve no idea what’s going on in my life, yes, I like you, I’ve always really liked you. But you shouldn’t trust my opinion about anything. I don’t.

I get my sketchpad out, tugging my hair and staring intently at the photos of the necklace. I call Charlotte at Emilia’s Sister, to say how pleased I am about the order. I try Guy again: ‘Hi, Guy. Look, I read the diary – Mum’s gone away, she said she’d told you, just wondering if we could chat? Give me a call.’

In the afternoon, guests start arriving for Lily’s open studio. I can hear sounds of chatter and laughter floating through the open window, down the corridor. I don’t hear Ben leave; perhaps he’s there too. When the charms arrive by messenger from Rolfie’s, I thread them onto what I’ve already assembled, making up two, three, different versions of the necklace, trying each out with Cecily’s ring. I make notes, I change bits around. I prop the photos up next to my stool and sketch on, waiting for someone to call me back, but the phone is silent.

Chapter Forty-One

The days pass by easily at Jay’s. I fall into a rhythm there almost immediately. We know each other well, we can happily watch TV together or separately. Cathy can come round and hang out with both of us, just like the old days. Jay is laid-back about everything, to the point of being comatose sometimes, and I feel like Louisa, picking up his cereal bowls and dirty socks after he’s left for work in the morning. I love it. I’m sleeping like a log. It isn’t so cold, it’s April now, and the days are warmer, the nights fresh and it’s quiet around our side of De Beauvoir Square, but a contented quiet, not the silence of an empty flat. We stay up late into the night watching films, taking it in turns to pick. Last night I chose
Tootsie
. The night before Jay made me watch
The Bourne Identity
, which I’ve never seen. I could have done without him making exploding noises at the exact moment onscreen that someone gets shot or blown up, but otherwise it was great.

I used to wish I could live alone. Now, I am relishing living with my cousin. It’s great to know someone will be there when you get back home. And even if they’re not, that they’ll be back eventually. With Oli, it got to a stage where even though he was there, he wasn’t really present. There were so many things we couldn’t discuss, didn’t discuss: Should we move to a bigger place? When should we have children? Why are you never around any more?

Anyway, it is with surprise one Saturday that I look round and realise it’s April, and I’m going back to Cornwall the following week, for the launch of the foundation.

Yesterday, I had a call from Emilia’s Sister. Charlotte, the owner, said she had to call, because they’d sold eight necklaces that Friday alone – that doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a classic Columbia Road shop, one that does most of its business on Saturday and Sunday, so that’s pretty good news, amazing in fact. Earlier in the week, I found out I had a place at that business seminar I signed up for. It’s in a couple of weeks. It’s free, and as far as I’m concerned, I need all the help that I can get.

It’s funny, but once you admit you’ve screwed up and don’t know what comes next, it’s easier to accept help. I have had my own business for a couple of years, and it’s only now I realise how much I have to learn, look it square in the face. It’s scary. But scary in a good way. I’ve been used, these past months, to scary in a bad way. A swirling mist of uncertainty, of misery and sadness that hung on my shoulders like a heavy cloak and which I could never seem to shake off. Every day it seems to get lighter.

Jay and I have lunch at a Vietnamese café round the corner from his flat. I’m meeting Cathy later, we’re going to see a film and then for a bite to eat afterwards so I can hear about Jonathan, who has suggested they go away on a
Strictly Come Dancing
weekend featuring the stars of the show in a country manor house. He says it’ll be good networking for him. (Cathy is torn between being totally convinced he must be gay and secretly desperately wanting to go, as
Strictly
is her and her mum’s favourite TV programme.) I want an early night, it’s my first day back on the market stall tomorrow and I need to get there in good time, make sure I’ve got my act together.

After we’ve ordered, Jay says, ‘I spoke to Dad while you were getting the paper.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ I say. ‘He says Miranda went, like, last Monday. Ten, twelve days ago.’

‘I know, that was the day I moved in with you.’ I love how precise Archie is, he has all the information.

‘Well, she’s not coming back till Tuesday.’ He puts his elbows on the table. ‘Did you know that?’

‘No,’ I say. I cross my arms. That’s two weeks she’s been away, why on earth? ‘Jay, I told you, I tried and tried to get hold of her before she went off to Fez, or wherever it is. I’ve called her, OK? I’ll see her next week, when we go back to Summercove.’ I bite my lip.

‘All right!’ He holds up his hands. ‘Calm down. It’s going to be weird,’ he says.

‘I know. And kind of awful. Are you sure you won’t come?’ I ask, begging with my hands outstretched. He shakes his head.

‘Nah. Don’t mean to be funny, and I’ll come if you really want me to, but I’m not invited. We should go down in May, you know? Before it’s sold. Have one more weekend there. I don’t want to be there with all those art people, all of that. Dad’s dreading it.’

He’s right. I’m not much looking forward to it. Since I moved to Jay’s, everything seems to be on a more even keel. Going to Cornwall is going to bring it all back again. I’m being a coward, I have to face up to it, really, have to ask the questions I don’t have answers to. And it’ll be good in many ways. I’ll see Louisa. I’ll see Arvind. I’ll see the house, perhaps for the last time? Perhaps not. And I’ll see my mum – although God knows if she’ll turn up or not, even if she is supposed to be making a speech.

As for Guy, I haven’t heard back from him, so I’ll see him there too. I don’t know what to say to him, either. I suppose I just have to wait till he wants to talk to me. I don’t understand why he’s gone silent.

‘Is your mum going?’ I ask hopefully. ‘No, she’ll be in Mumbai, won’t she?’ Sameena’s sister is not well again, so she’s going over to look after her family. ‘Like I say, Nat,’ Jay says again. ‘If you need me to be there, I’ll be there. It’s just hard with work and everything. I’d rather go when I can spend some proper time with Arvind, remember the house the way I want to, not with a load of posh people asking me stupid questions about Granny.’ The waitress puts two beers down on the table and Jay takes a big gulp. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say to them, anyway, would you?’ I shake my head. ‘It’s private. Her being our grandmother hasn’t got anything to do with whether she was a good painter or any of that.’

Perhaps I’ll never be able to tell him what our grandmother was really like. But as I watch him I think, what would be gained by telling him, anyway? How would it help him, to know the truth? It wouldn’t. His father hasn’t ever told him, and I’m not going to. He doesn’t need to know. Jay has a family of his own, parents who love him, his own secure set-up. And yet again, I wish Mum was here, so I could say to her, I know you shielded us from the truth because it would have hurt us, and how much it must have cost you, and I am grateful. We all should be.

After lunch, we walk to the Central line Tube together. Jay is going into Soho to pick something up from his office before meeting his friends, and I feel like a wander, so I say I’ll come with him. The daffodils are out in the square and the sky is blue. Finally, it feels as if spring might be on the way. The winter has been too long.

We walk to Liverpool Street. Jay is texting his buddies, arranging some complicated plan for this evening involving a club somewhere in Hackney, with drinks at some speakeasy beforehand. When we get to King’s Cross, Jay shakes his phone, waiting to get reception as we walk through the cavernous station to change lines. The big, echoing corridors are full of people racing for trains, hurrying onwards, going back home. The strip lighting is harsh; I blink to try and see straight, thoughts crowding my head.

‘Man, what’s up with Samir and Joey tonight?’ he says in exasperation, staring at his phone. ‘No one’s around, this is shit.’

‘Hey, Jay,’ I say suddenly. ‘I’m going to get off here, OK?’

‘What?’ he says. ‘I’m going to go and see Guy.’

‘Who? Oh, the Bowler Hat’s Guy. Why?’

‘Just – want to talk to him,’ I say. ‘I think he might help with some stuff.’

‘Like what?’

‘He – it’s just stuff about Granny’s foundation,’ I amend lamely. ‘We’re on the committee. Thought I’d do it while I’m in the area.’

‘He still hasn’t called you back? Haven’t you been trying him all week?’

I nod. ‘I won’t be long. See you laters.’

Jay already has his phone out, texting. ‘Sure. Laters, yeah?’ I love Jay when he’s gearing up to be an East London wide boy with his brothers out on a night on the town. I keep expecting him to click his fingers together and shout, ‘Wicked, innit!’ It’s funny how he’s so organised, sorted even, but still such a little boy in so many ways, and I find it endearing, whereas with Oli I came to find it disturbing. Perhaps it’s because he really doesn’t know he’s doing it. Whereas I felt Oli had read too many lads’ mags articles about how to behave like a child and get away with it.

I feel a curious lightening of my mood as I get off the bus on Upper Street a few minutes later. It’s a nice late afternoon, the clocks have gone back and people are still out shopping. I head down Cross Street, walking with purpose.

When I get to Guy Leighton Antiques I stop. The blinds are down and there’s a ‘CLOSED’ sign hanging on the door. I peer through the glass; the shop is in darkness, but there’s a light shining in the back room. I rap firmly on the door, rattling it slightly so the old bell jangles faintly.

After a few seconds, Guy appears, blinking. I watch him as he shuffles casually towards the door, trying to picture the young, charming, kind man Cecily fell in love with, the one so vividly alive in the diary. He’s fiddling with his glasses, on the chain round his neck. He doesn’t look up as he unbolts the door, and then he opens it.

‘I’m afraid we’re closed today –’ he begins. ‘Oh.’

He stares at me. His face is paler than ever. ‘Sorry to drop by unannounced,’ I begin. ‘It’s just I’ve been trying to get hold of you—’

His hands are still on the half-shut door. He opens it a little wider. ‘Natasha,’ he says. His eyes do not leave my face and I remember him saying I looked like Cecily. I feel uncomfortable.

‘I wondered if we could talk,’ I say.

Guy is clenching the door and his knuckles are white. ‘Yes – yes . . .’ He looks flustered. Um – so what do you want?’

The Guy I know (admittedly, not well) is normally calm, wryly amused, in control. This man is like a stranger to me.

‘I don’t want to disturb you,’ I say, thinking perhaps he was in the middle of something, or he’s just woken up and is confused after a nap. ‘It’s just – I read Cecily’s diary, you said to call you when I had.’ I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. How could he have forgotten? ‘I’ve been trying to call you – and Mum – she’s gone away.’

‘I know. She came to see me before she went.’

‘She came to see you?’ I try to ignore the fact that my mother seems to be quite happy to contact Guy all the time over me. Here, take the diary. Here, I’m going away. I shift on my feet. ‘I didn’t know what was in it—’

‘I know,’ Guy says. ‘I know. It’s terrible.’ But he doesn’t move. His jaw is tight; his eyes are cold.

I swallow, because I think I am about to cry again, and I don’t know why. Why’s he being so . . . strange? ‘Can – can I come in? The thing is . . . I can’t really talk to anyone else about it, you see—’

Then Guy holds up his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘No, I can’t. I can’t do this.’

‘Do what?’

‘This.’ He points at me. ‘It’s – I’m so sorry. It’s just too much. I should have realised. This family . . . It’s – I’m not ready. I’m sorry. Go away, Natasha. I’m sorry.’

And as I am standing in the doorway staring at him in astonishment, he gently closes the door in my face.