Made in Heaven (11 page)

She'd developed a talent for sex with Mickey and was determined that it shouldn't go to waste. She was relieved to find that her marriage was going to be okay as far as that was concerned. Also, Graham was independently wealthy and that was even more crucial. He'd earn a good salary as a doctor of course, but it was reassuring to know that in the background there was the kind of money that meant she would never have to worry about (hideous word!)
economizing
. And his parents had died when he was about eight, so she'd never had to deal with in-laws. That was a real blessing.

When Jonathan was born, two years after her marriage, things between her elder son and her husband went from bad to worse. Adrian had been such a sensitive little boy, Maureen recalled, and it must have been obvious to him that Graham really adored his own son and was, in some indefinable way, different towards Maureen's. The tantrums and arguments; the slamming doors and shouted swear-words that had become such
a feature of Adrian's teenage years culminated in his adoption of Mickey's name. After years of being Adrian Ashton, he became Adrian Whittaker, which hadn't exactly endeared him to Graham. Matters weren't helped by the fact that Jon seemed to go through life with no problems at all. He was a placid, kind, gentle child and managed to get on well even with his elder brother.

Of course, everything was more civilized now, at least on the surface, but a son can't hide the truth from his mother, and Maureen knew that Adrian wasn't Graham's biggest fan. She also realized that the feeling was mutual, although her husband had more sense than to say anything. Jonathan had become a doctor, which of course made his father love him even more. But I love Jon too, Maureen told herself. Of course I do. He's clever and sweet and doing wonderful work down there in South Africa, and I'm so proud of him. I adore both my sons, but facts are facts. Jon is Graham's favourite and Adrian is mine even though I'll go to my grave before I admit that to anyone. Adrian hadn't lived at home for years, which was a plus, but whenever he visited, all sorts of unspoken tensions filled the air and meals were forever on the verge of becoming a kind of battleground. She was grateful that he was getting married now. Zannah was a pretty woman and seemed pleasant enough and her presence would make family get-togethers much easier from now on.

Maureen took a last sip from her coffee cup (lovely, delicate, white bone china) and turned her attention to the letters she was about to write. First, a thank-you to Mrs Parrish then a note to Zannah. She wanted to invite her to lunch so that they might talk about the matter of the venue, just the two of them. It was to have been discussed yesterday, but then Mrs Gratrix … Joss … had thrown her wobbly, or whatever it was and that had been the end of that. Maureen wondered
whether the little scene she'd witnessed was an indication of some kind of instability in the family. She'd have to ask Adrian tactfully if there was any history of such behaviour. You couldn't be too careful. Joss had been in a most peculiar state and Maureen thought the migraine story couldn't be entirely true. Maybe it was a cover for some sort of menopausal hideousness. She herself was fifty-four, only a year older than Joss, and so far everything in that department had been plain sailing, but the changes went on for years, and every woman was different, she'd read. If I ever start acting strangely, she told herself, I'll go on HRT at once.

Lunch with Zannah … there was a very good little restaurant she knew near Victoria that would be perfect. She opened her stationery drawer and took out a sheet of palest blue paper, engraved with her name and address, and began to write, pausing only to make a mental note that any wedding invitations that went out for her son's wedding would definitely have to be engraved and not printed. There were standards to maintain and she had no intention of settling for second best in any area of her life.

*

‘I had a lovely time with Daddy,' Isis said. She was lying under her duvet in white pyjamas with butterflies printed all over them. Zannah, sitting on the end of her daughter's bed, wondered whether you could have too much of a good thing. She'd been the one to start Isis on her butterfly passion by painting a mural on one wall, a kind of collage of thousands of them in every colour she'd managed to get her hands on. Isis liked lots of other stuff, too, stars, rainbows, kittens and rabbits, for instance, but butterflies reigned supreme, possibly because they were quite easy to draw. All the books were kept on a shelf above the bed and there was a little desk under the window, but the room was tiny. I'll make sure she has a bigger one when Adrian and I
are married, Zannah thought, and sighed. She'd been so absorbed in thinking about her wedding day that where they would live afterwards hadn't really crossed her mind in any serious way. I'll miss this flat wherever we end up, she thought. Never mind, there's plenty of time to worry about that when I've organized everything else. A small voice in Zannah's head whispered to her:
You'll miss this place because it's where you and Cal were together
but she brushed it aside. It was going to be wonderful going round with Adrian, choosing where they were going to live.

‘We went to Wimbledon Common,' Isis went on.

‘That's good,' Zannah said, turning her attention to her daughter again. ‘Did you find any Wombles?'

‘Don't be silly, Mummy.' Isis was scornful. ‘Wombles are from TV, and there's books, but they're not real.'

‘Well, you never know.'

‘We walked for ages. And the picnic was fantastic. Dad's so great at choosing sandwiches. We're going to the Science Museum on Thursday. Mummy?'

‘Yes?'

‘Can I ask you something?'

‘You're frowning. It's something serious, is it? Will I like it?'

‘I don't know,' said Isis. ‘You might not.'

‘Go on, then.'

‘You know Gemma?'

Gemma was Claire's daughter, and Isis's best friend. They'd been like twins ever since Zannah took up her job at the school.

‘What about her?'

‘Can she be a bridesmaid, too?'

Zannah was silent for a second. Then she let out a long breath as though she'd been holding it for the last few seconds. ‘I don't know, sweetie. I'd not thought of having anyone but you. Two bridesmaids. I'll have to think about it.'

‘I'd really, really love it if she could. She's going to get dead jealous if I'm one and she isn't and I won't be able to talk to her about it and then what'll happen? Also,' Isis was quick to continue, sensing Zannah's hesitation, ‘it'll mean I've got someone to talk to and play with at the wedding. And at the rehearsals. And we can go to our fittings together. For our dresses.'

‘I see you've got it all worked out.' Zannah got up. ‘Well, I'll think about it, okay? You lie down now and go to sleep. We'll discuss it another time. I'll have to consult Adrian, of course.'

‘Right. But don't think for too long,' said Isis and Zannah couldn't help noticing that a frown appeared on her daughter's face when Adrian was mentioned. It was natural, she supposed, to object in some way to another man in her mother's life and Isis had been very good most of the time. Just occasionally, though, Zannah got the impression that Adrian was not her daughter's favourite person. She'll come round when we're all living together, she told herself. She hardly knows him. Not properly.

‘Night night, pet,' she said, and kissed Isis on the forehead. ‘Sleep tight. Don't let the bugs bite.'

Zannah switched off the light as she left the room and the butterflies on the wall became a thousand black shapes against the pale background. Two bridesmaids! Would it work? Maybe it was a small price to pay for Isis to be happy.

It hadn't been in the least difficult to get away. Joss sat alone in the café at the British Library and the delicious-looking carrot cake, which she'd ordered and started to eat because she was feeling faint, might as well have been made of cardboard. Her hand trembled as she took each forkful and the coffee she'd begun by enjoying had now turned cold and rather bitter. She'd chosen to meet Gray here. It was convenient for Euston, and one of her favourite places in the world. Where should a librarian meet people if not in a library? She liked the idea of being surrounded by books, and it also occurred to her after she'd suggested it in an email to Gray that in the whole of London this would be the one place Maureen would never think of visiting. She also doubted that it was much frequented by figures of the medical establishment who knew him.

Bob was in the middle of marking exam papers and had barely looked up when she'd announced, on Monday morning, that she had to go to London to see her editor.
All that stuff
, as he put it, by which he meant anything to do with the world of publishing, went straight past him. Joss could practically see her words flying through the air and out of the window. Her writing career up to this point had meant nothing to him. He was always happy when she had a poem appearing in a magazine and would turn the pages
reverently and sometimes even read what she'd written, but then he'd hand it back to her and forget about it. Now that she was putting together her first collection, he'd no more take an interest in the day-to-day business of its publication than spend hours discussing the merits of a skirt she'd bought, or her latest shade of lipstick.
Very nice, darling
pretty well summed up his reaction to the daily traffic of her life. She'd felt a low-level resentment about this for years, though never enough to make a fuss about it. She wasn't quite sure whether Bob was a little suspicious about this trip, but if he did wonder about it, he made a good job of hiding his concern. Her emphasis on meeting her editor would most likely have persuaded him that this was a poetry outing and nothing to do with him.

One of the things she loved best about Gray was the way he took what she wrote seriously. He would point out particular things he liked in each poem; ask about anything he didn't understand, offer praise in words that no one else had ever used about her work:
I learned it by heart because I wanted it to be part of me, Lydia
, he'd written, after reading the latest. She hugged that sentence to her for days and now … now there was a chance that she'd never again have someone who would speak to her on that level. Who would offer suggestions which were completely unmixed with envy, or flattery, or anything but love and intelligence and above all, a deep understanding of what she was trying to do, trying to say. She, for her part, wrote to him at length about his poems, which she loved, and not only because she loved him. Who would nag him into submitting them to magazines, if she didn't? Now that she'd met Maureen she wouldn't have been a bit surprised to learn that she'd never read one of her husband's poems in her life. Doing without this mutual support, the interchange which brought them so close to one another would be almost the worst of it. The deprivation. The loneliness.

She'd told Gray eleven o'clock. Her meeting with Mal in Bloomsbury was at two. She had arranged to spend the night with Zannah, Em and Isis, and when her emotions threatened to get the better of her, she envisaged the lovely time they'd have together. Em was going to cook a special meal and Joss longmaed to be with them all. Something to look forward to, she thought. Something not to lose sight of if things became difficult, as they were almost bound to.

She glanced at her watch. Gray was almost pathologically punctual and would be here in a minute. She only knew this because he'd told her. I know almost nothing about him from my own experience, she reflected. She'd deliberately arrived much earlier than the appointed time. She wanted to be sitting down, ready, her hair brushed and her lipstick on, looking what Em called, now that she was on so many fashion shoots for her firm, ‘pulled together'. She'd spent most of Wednesday fretting about what to wear, like a teenager on her first date. Pathetic! She rejected anything that screamed
provincial librarian
, which ruled out suits, neat dresses and court shoes. But she didn't want to appear like a mad, middle-aged poet of the dirndl-skirt-and-peasant-blouse variety either. In the end, she settled for a pair of black trousers and a red silk shirt. She had a cashmere cardigan in her enormous red leather bag, which was what Americans called a ‘tote' and quite big enough for an overnight stay.

She saw him approaching before he caught sight of her. She registered his height, his grace, his puzzled expression as he looked round the café. When he saw her, he lifted his hand in a gesture of delight and moved quickly to the table. The first few words, the
haveyoubeenwaitinglong
and the
I'lljustgetmyselfacupofcoffee
passed in a blur and Joss was relieved to have a few seconds to get her breath back and compose herself while he went to the counter. When he was sitting in front of her, not
even two feet away and with his hand inches from hers, she took a deep breath. ‘One of us has to say something, Gray. You look very well.'

‘Lydia. I can't believe I'm here, sitting with you. I've imagined this so often … seeing you again. Talking to you.'

Joss looked down at the dregs of her coffee, then into his eyes. She could hear the beating of her own heart in her ears and was almost overcome with a longing to get up from her chair, fling her arms around Gray and hold him to her. She knew exactly how it would be, his warmth. The taste of him on her mouth. There was no coffee left, but she lifted the cup to her lips anyway, just for something to do. He'd been suffering, that was clear. There were purple bags under his eyes and he looked exhausted, drained. Or maybe it was just middle age and she looked just as bad. As though he was reading her thoughts, he said, ‘You're beautiful, Lydia. Exactly as I remember you.'

‘Gray, this is the last time I'm doing something like this. Meeting you, I mean. After Zannah and Adrian's engagement lunch, I wanted never to see you again. It's not just us now, it's them. I'm not going to spoil my daughter's wedding. Her life.'