Now and Then Friends (25 page)

“Sorry.” Emily made a face and then took a sip of tea. “It's just that Riley and Rogan aren't even two, and I feel like I can barely manage them. And to do it all over again, and then have toddlers
and
a newborn . . .”

“Have you talked to Tom about it?”

“I haven't told him yet. He's going to be thrilled, I know.”

“But if you're not thrilled . . .” Rachel suggested cautiously. “There are options, Emily.”

Emily stared at her for a moment before a look of horrified comprehension crossed her face and she shook her head quickly. “Oh, no. No, I don't think I could do that. I mean, I might not want to be pregnant, but when I think of Riley and Rogan . . . There's a little person in there. A mini me-and-Tom.”

“Okay.” Rachel shrugged, not wanting to push it. Emily had placed her hand on her middle and was smiling tentatively, as if she needed to give herself permission to be happy.

“It's just going to be hard, you know? And I'm so tired. But I don't regret it, either, not exactly. If that makes sense.”

“It does.” Rachel had never really thought she and Emily Hart had much in common. She'd looked down on Emily a little bit, for being so well off and yet still moaning about life.

But now, for the first time, Rachel could see the conundrum Emily was in. It was the same one she was in: feeling trapped yet not quite sure she actually wanted life to be different. She wouldn't wish Lily away, or the years she'd spent taking care of her. She couldn't wish Nathan away either, or how much time she spent with him. Sometimes her life felt small and suffocating and intolerable, but it was still her life and she loved everyone in it. Even Meghan.

Sighing, Rachel rose from the table and put her mug in the sink. “You look knackered, Emily. Maybe you should go kip upstairs for a bit. I can watch the boys while I tidy up.”

Emily looked up from her tea, her expression guiltily hopeful. “Oh, I don't know. Are you sure . . . ?”

“Yes,” Rachel answered, suppressing a sigh. “I'm sure.”

Of course, the second Emily closed her bedroom door, the theme music of
Thomas the Tank Engine
came on, signaling the end of the show,
and Riley and Rogan came trotting into the kitchen while Rachel was getting out the mop.

“Hello, you two,” she said. “Are you going to be helpers?”

Three hours later Rachel acknowledged what wishful thinking that had been. Riley and Rogan did not have the word “helpful” in their admittedly very limited vocabulary. Emily had slept for the entire time Rachel cleaned the house, wiping up the dirty water the boys spilled when they tipped over her pail and keeping their hands from reaching inside the toilet as she attempted to scrub it. By five o'clock she was both filthy and exhausted.

Emily staggered out of her bedroom just as Rachel was packing up, making a little more noise than she usually would in the hope that she'd awaken Sleeping Beauty.

“Had a nice nap?” she called brightly as Emily stumbled down the stairs, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

“Yes, yes. Thank you so much. . . .”

She smiled at Rachel as Riley and Rogan came tumbling towards her and then tackled her around the knees.

“It was no bother,” Rachel said, and despite the three hours of total hassle, she meant it.

She was just getting into her car when her mobile rang and she saw with a wary ripple of pleasure that it was Andrew.

“Hey,” she greeted him as she closed the car door.

“I was just checking to see if you got home safely.”

“Considering it's two days later, you'd better hope I had.” She found herself smiling.

He chuckled softly, the sound weirdly intimate on the phone. “True enough. That was really just an excuse, anyway. I wanted to talk to you.”

“You did?” She felt another silly smile spread over her face.

“Yes. To make sure you aren't annoyed with me for nagging you.”

“I wouldn't call it nagging, exactly.”

“Irritating you, then.”

“You were right, though,” she answered. “Sort of.”

“So are you going to think about what I said?”

“Maybe. I haven't had time, to be honest.” That wasn't quite true. She'd powered up the ancient desktop computer in the sitting room and thought about doing an Internet search for courses. Nathan had come running in before she'd opened the browser.

“How's your mum?”

The switch in topics threw her. “Oh, fine. Well, no, not fine.” She sighed. “Terrible, if the expression in her eyes is anything to go by. I can barely look at her, which makes me an awful daughter.”

“A normal person,” Andrew corrected. “When is she coming home?”

“Probably at the weekend.” Rachel closed her eyes, not even wanting to think about what that meant.

“Would you like me to help?”

Her eyes snapped open, and she stared straight ahead at the Harts' muddy garden with its patchy grass and runty trees. “Pardon?”

“I asked, would you like me to help? I could come to Hartley-by-the-Sea for the weekend. Drive your mum home from the hospital, maybe.”

“I have a car.”

“I know.” Andrew's voice was gentle. “But I thought maybe you'd like help shouldering the burden.”

Quite suddenly Rachel felt as if she could cry. She dropped the phone in her lap and pressed her thumbs to her closed lids as she took a few deep breaths.

“Rachel?” Andrew's voice, coming from the phone in her lap, sounded tinny and alarmed.

“I'm here.” She took one last deep breath and picked up the phone. She hadn't expected Andrew to offer to help. She hadn't realized she'd want it so much. “Yes,” she said. “That would be great. I'd love for you to come back and help me.”

“Eleanor Carwell didn't come in today.”

Dan didn't look up from the Lottery cards he was feeding into the dispenser. “So?”

“So she's come in every morning since I started working here,” Claire said. She straightened, rubbing the ache in her lower back. She was almost finished stacking the newspapers.

“Which is all of four weeks,” Dan pointed out.

“Still, she's made a big deal of it. Haven't you noticed? She gets all dressed up. . . .”

“She wears the same thing every day.”

“But she looks smart,” Claire insisted. “Why wouldn't she come today?”

“She's on holiday?”

“She would have canceled her paper, then.”

“She's ill.”

“Exactly,” Claire said. “What if she's really ill? She lives all alone—”

“Let me guess,” Dan interjected dryly. “You want to go over there like some kind of Suzy Sunshine and check if she's all right.”

“And if I do?”

“I assume I'm paying you to do this?”

“You don't have to. Dock my wages fifteen minutes if you like.”

Dan shook his head. “What if she doesn't want to be bothered?”

“Then I'm sure she'll have no qualms about shutting the door in my face.” Which was what Eleanor had done the last time Claire had gone to her house, after she'd given Eleanor her newspaper and milk. Claire had found two pound coins in a small brown envelope on the stoop, propped up against the previous day's empty milk bottle, underneath a sign demanding dog owners clean up their pets' “dirt.”

“Fine. Go. It isn't as if you've been working for the last ten minutes anyway.”

“I finished stacking the papers,” Claire protested.

“Ten minutes ago.” Dan shooed her towards the door with the indifferent flap of one hand. “Go on.”

Claire smiled and reached for her coat. It had been nearly a week since she'd found Dan hungover, and since then their friendship had progressed to a friendly-yet-bickering sort of banter. At least she hoped it was banter. She was never quite sure when Dan was joking.

“I'll be back in fifteen minutes,” she promised. Dan did not reply.

Outside the sun had decided to peek out from behind a bank of woolly white clouds, and everything still glistened from last night's thundering rain. Claire hummed as she walked down the high street, waving to a few people she now knew by sight, from her time in the shop. She came to number fifteen and saw the curtains were drawn, the lights off. Maybe Dan was right and Eleanor Carwell had gone on holiday.

Claire knocked, and then knocked again and was just debating a third time when the door was wrenched open and Eleanor stood there, clutching the front of a ratty old dressing gown together.

“What on earth?” she exclaimed. “I thought someone was trying to break down my door.”

“Sorry,” Claire said, and Eleanor squinted at her.

“What do you want?”

Not the warmest of greetings, but Claire refused to be deterred.
“I noticed you didn't come in for your newspaper and milk this morning, so I thought I'd check to make sure you were all right.”

“The post office shop is a doctor's surgery now too, I suppose?” Eleanor grumbled, and turned and went back inside, leaving the door open.

Claire stood on the stoop for a moment, uncertain as to whether she should follow her in. Eleanor had disappeared down a long, narrow corridor towards the kitchen in the back, and after another second's hesitation Claire stepped inside and followed her down the hallway.

The house smelled a bit like her grandmother's in Leeds used to, of lavender water and cough syrup and mothballs. It was a potent mixture, and Claire tried to discreetly breathe through her mouth as she stepped into Eleanor's kitchen, which looked like it had been transported directly from a time machine circa 1972.

Eleanor glanced over her shoulder, seeming both surprised and annoyed that Claire had followed her in. “So why are you here exactly? You didn't bring my newspaper. Or my milk.”

“Oh. Right. I suppose I should have.” This really wasn't going very well. “Like I said, I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“And now you can see that I am.” Eleanor's clawlike hand trembled as she clutched her dressing gown. Her hair, gray and straggly, was loose about her shoulders instead of up in its usual bun, and in the pale sunlight streaming through the window, Claire could see the age spots on her hands and face.

“Why didn't you come for your paper?” Claire asked. “Or your milk?”

Eleanor's mouth twitched and then she looked away. “If you want the truth, I didn't see the point today.”

“Why not?”

“Every morning I get dressed and primped for my big outing,” she stated flatly. “A walk down the high street for my milk and newspaper, and then I come back for my cup of tea and two digestives while I read the front page.” Her mouth twisted in something meant to be a smile. “The highlight of my day.”

“And you didn't feel like it today?”

“No, I didn't. Why should I?” Eleanor sniffed. “You have no idea what it is like to be old.”

“No,” Claire agreed, “but I do know what it's like to feel purposeless and lonely.”

The older woman's face contorted for no more than a second before she looked away. “You have some cheek.”

“I spent four years in Portugal showing villas to retirees and planning to marry a man I'm not even sure I liked.”

“You had a job and a fiancé,” Eleanor returned shortly. “Those are two things that I don't have.”

“Is this a competition?” Claire dared to tease, and Eleanor gave her a quelling look.

“It most certainly is not. But don't think you can compare your situation to mine, young lady. I am old and alone and will spend the rest of my days in this miserable little house.” She swept a hand to encompass not just the dated kitchen, but the dark hallway and the sitting room, which Claire could see from the kitchen was a study in brown and plaid. “I don't even like this house,” she added. “It was my sister's, and she left it to me in her will.”

“Why didn't you sell it and buy something else?” Claire asked, and Eleanor's sparse eyebrows rose in indignation.

“You are impertinent.”

“Probably. And I'm not normally like this, but . . .” Claire shrugged. “I do know what it's like to feel unhappy and wonder what you're doing with your life. Yes, I had a job, but I hated it, and I'm much happier now stacking newspapers in the shop. And yes, I had a man, but I think the only reason he wanted to marry me was because I looked good on his arm and I never made a fuss. I'd rather be alone.”

Eleanor sniffed and said nothing.

“Look, it's no good staying cooped up inside all the time,” Claire said.
“Why haven't you joined one of the village societies? You used to do embroidery, didn't you?”

“I can't anymore,” Eleanor said stiffly. “My eyesight isn't good enough.”

“Oh.” Sympathy twisted inside her. Was there anything good about growing old? “What about another club? I see the notices on the board in the shop. Bridge club, gardening club, cake and coffee in the church hall on a Tuesday . . .”

“I don't garden and I fell out with Maureen Lemmon years ago,” Eleanor said. “She runs the bridge club. And she cheats.”

“Oh.” Claire nibbled her lip. “What about the pub quiz?”

“The pub quiz?” Eleanor repeated, disdain dripping from her voice. “I do not—”

“It's tonight, and it's good fun.” Even if it hadn't been for her. “I bet you're good at trivia quizzes. You might even win.”

“I have never done a pub quiz in my life,” Eleanor declared.

“Then it's about time. We can make up a team—you, me, Dan, and . . .” She cast about for another name. “Lily Campbell. She seems like the trivia type too.” Claire had no idea how she was going to convince Dan to participate in the pub quiz, but she was determined to try. “Come on, Eleanor,” she urged. “What have you got to lose?”

“My dignity?”

“It's
fun.
”

“That is a matter of opinion,” Eleanor retorted, but Claire could tell she was relenting. She saw it in the way her hand had relaxed on her dressing gown and her gaze had taken on a thoughtful, almost crafty look. “Very well. I suppose I could go once.”

“That's the spirit.”

“Do not condescend to me, young lady,” Eleanor snapped.

“Sorry.” Claire bowed her head in brief contrition. “I'll meet you here at seven, and we can go on to the pub. And,” she added as she turned towards the door, “my name is Claire.”

“No,” Dan said flatly when Claire broached the idea with him later that morning.

“For Eleanor's sake,” Claire urged. “One pub quiz. How bad can it be? You might, God forbid, actually have fun.”

“You don't even like pub quizzes.”

“I know. You see the sacrifices I'm willing to make?” She was hoping for a smile, but Dan's expression didn't change as he locked up the post office for the lunch hour. “Please, Dan,” Claire said, and laid a hand on his bare arm, her fingers closing over his “sapper” tattoo.

He stilled, and Claire registered how warm his skin was and how touching him just on the arm made her feel kind of tingly inside. Hugh had never made her feel like that.

She thought she should remove her hand, but she didn't want to and Dan wasn't shaking it off.

“How about it?” she pressed, and he sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “One pub quiz.” And then he shook her hand off.

After work Claire walked up the high street to the Campbells' house to ask Lily if she wanted to come to the pub quiz that night. She hadn't seen Rachel since they'd had a drink together last week, and she felt a niggling sense of guilt for not reaching out to her. She didn't even know how her mum was doing or when she'd be able to come back home. Some friend she was being.

Meghan answered her tentative knock, and Claire drew in a startled breath at how awful she looked.

“Meghan . . . are you . . . ? Are you all right?”

“All right? Why shouldn't I be all right?” Meghan's face was blotchy, her eyes bloodshot, and her clothes hung off her wiry frame. “Rachel's not here if you've come over to do each other's nails.”

“Actually, I'm here to talk to Lily.”

“Lily?” Meghan's gaze narrowed. “What do you want her for? Are you turning into Lady Bountiful or something?”

Claire flushed, discomfited by the vitriol in Meghan's voice. “No. I just need a fourth person to make up a team for the pub quiz,” she said. “Is she around?”

“She's upstairs,” Meghan answered, and walked into the kitchen, leaving Claire standing on a stoop for the second time that day.

She stepped inside the cluttered mess of the front hall, unsure if she should go upstairs in search of Lily or ask Meghan to help. It felt wrong to nose through Rachel's house, but Meghan hadn't left her much choice.

After standing there uncertainly for a few seconds, Claire started up the steep, narrow stairs. She hadn't realized how small and shabby Rachel's house was. When she'd last been there she'd been so uncomfortable she hadn't registered the state of the house beyond the overwhelming smell of Nathan's soiled underpants. Fortunately, the house smelled clean now, even if it didn't look it.

She picked her way up the stairs, stepping over crumpled clothing and discarded shoes before calling cautiously, “Lily?”

A thump sounded from one of the rooms and then Lily poked her head out of a doorway at the end of the hall, her mouth dropping open at the sight of Claire.

“Claire? What are you doing . . . ?”

“I'm glad you're home—”

“I'm on study leave.” Lily stepped out of her room. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, it's fine. Meghan told me to come up. I just wondered if you wanted to come to the pub quiz tonight. . . .” Quickly Claire explained her mission, and after her shock at seeing her there cleared, Lily brightened and agreed to come.

“As long as Rachel doesn't mind me horning in on her territory.”

“Oh, do you think she will?” Claire winced inwardly at the thought of facing Rachel's wrath yet again. “I didn't even think of that. . . .”

“I'm sure it's fine. The worst she'll do is nag me to study instead.” Lily made a face and then ducked back inside her room, and Claire made her way downstairs.

She saw Meghan in the kitchen, sitting at the table with Nathan on her lap. Claire hesitated, torn between making her escape and reaching out to Meghan, whose features looked drawn in stark lines, her expression cringingly bleak.

Then Meghan turned and caught her staring, and her face hardened into an expression of simple malevolence. “Finished, then?” she demanded, and with a nod Claire took an apologetic step backwards.