One Moment, One Morning (25 page)

She does not bother to shower; she’ll only get hot playing tennis, and anyway, she wants to make a ritual of it before she meets Vic and Sofia later. There’s something about getting clean after exercise that is especially pleasurable. What she
will
do, however, is ring her mother.

‘Hi, Mum,’ she says, when her mother answers. ‘Just thought I’d let you know when I’ll be with you.’

‘Oh, super. When?’

Lou knows they are likely to be out late and she doesn’t want to rush her guests in the morning, and that’s aside from any ulterior motives. ‘I was hoping to be with you early afternoon. Say about two?’

Silence.

‘OK?’ she prompts.

‘I guess so.’

I guess not, thinks Lou. If recent events are making her assess what’s important, the flip side is that she is less tolerant of minor irritations. Immediately, she is riled. Her mother seems so petty. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Well, it’s only I was expecting you earlier. Given you said you were coming for the weekend, Saturday afternoon is rather late.’

‘I never said that.’ Lou’s response is clipped. She feels guilty, however: did she, maybe? She’s fairly sure not, but such a lot has happened in the last few days, she can’t be certain. ‘I thought I said I’d head to you on Saturday morning—’

‘Two o’clock is hardly morning, darling.’

Grrr! It’s a perfect example of her mother’s manipulation: ‘darling’ used to conjure up a sense of daughterly responsibility, not a term of endearment at all. Lou mutters, ‘I meant I was
leaving
in the morning, not that I’d be there then.’

‘Oh, right, my misunderstanding,’ says her mother, clearly believing it isn’t.

‘It takes me over two hours on the train up to you,’ Lou justifies.

‘Hm,’ says her mother. Lou can sense her calculating journey times – can almost hear the unspoken question down the line: what on earth is my daughter doing till midday? – not to mention the accompanying disapproval.

She is about to retaliate when the elderly man opposite shifts from his stance at the window, gazes in her direction. Suddenly, he sees her; she is caught in the sun. He waves and smiles; it deflates Lou’s fury. It’s not worth it; life, as she has so recently been reminded, is too short. She changes her tone.

‘I’m sorry, Mum, I didn’t mean to mislead you. I have friends coming down tonight, you see, and I can hardly shove them out into the cold before breakfast. You’re such a good host yourself, you’d hate it if I did that, wouldn’t you?’

The flattery works. ‘Do you think I’m a good host, dear? Why, thank you.’

‘Of course, Mum,’ lies Lou. ‘The best. And you know what? I’ve got some lovely photos to show you, when I come.’

‘Oh, really, dear? What of?’

‘Georgia and the children,’ she says. ‘I took them at Christmas, remember?’ Secretly, she is proud of her ability behind a lens.

‘That’ll be nice,’ says her mother.

‘Great,’ says Lou. The placation seems to have worked. ‘Look, I have tennis now, so I have to go. We’ll catch up properly tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it. See you then, between two and three. Bye.’

She sits down heavily, head in her hands. ‘Looking forward to it’ – as if! She needs to sort out these issues with her mother. She hates the way they are both behaving – there is so much duplicity and manipulation, so little integrity to their dealings. It is such a contrast to the openness of her conversation last night – and Karen and Anna are almost strangers. To be so false with the woman who gave birth to her; now more than ever, it doesn’t feel right.

*     *     *

Little by little Anna pieces events together as she wakes from slumber. With a lurch she remembers; Simon is dead . . . Ah, yes; that is why her alarm has not gone off: she is not going to work today. She is helping Karen make food for the funeral. Yet she had a good evening with Karen and Lou the night before, given the circumstances. Lou seemed genuinely helpful. Introducing them has been a good thing.

I like Lou, she thinks.

Then, another lurch: Steve.

When she arrived home, he was vile. She’d actually thought he might hit her . . . just fleetingly. Didn’t she? She’d denied it at the time; she didn’t really acknowledge it. It’s only with hindsight that she can recognize what he momentarily seemed capable of. Now she has slept on it, his drunken behaviour seems almost unreal. His moods are so extreme compared to anything else she has experienced that it’s as if she can’t find a place for them in her day-to-day existence. She knows that if she were to judge him by the same criteria she applies to herself and others, he would fall far short, yet she makes an exception. Perhaps because his conduct is often at its worst outside of normal waking hours, it creates a sense that the two of them occupy somewhere utterly foreign and other, a place where normal standards do not apply. A looking-glass world.

But maybe it is time she stopped making excuses. Simon was a man with principles; he was never excessive or self-righteous about them, but he always treated people well. Anna admired him for that. And now that Simon is dead, it has thrown her double standards into sharp relief. Living with compromise seems harder. For that is what she is doing, isn’t it?

Her back is turned to Steve, but she can smell the alcohol, even from here. She is on the very edge of the bed, as if even in sleep she wanted to keep her distance.

She rolls over slowly, so as not to wake him.

At this moment, she does not love him. She doesn’t even hate him. She
pities
him. And once pity has entered any relationship . . .

Fuck it, she thinks. Fuck him. Steve has taken too much of her energy already; since waking she has done nothing but think of him. Their issues can wait. He doesn’t deserve it. Until after the funeral at least, Karen must be her priority.

*     *     *

The supermarket is crowded; Friday morning is a busy time. Karen is one of many mothers pushing a large trolley round the aisles, stocking up for the weekend. Unlike many, she is without the children; for this she is thankful. It is good to have this opportunity; she doesn’t get it very often. But every Friday she has a few hours to herself. She doesn’t go to work, Luke is at school and Molly is at Tracy’s. Shopping might not seem a thrilling use of her time; nonetheless she is enjoying it. It is a relief to be without her offspring, wheedling to buy items she has no wish to purchase. So she allows herself to float round the aisles in an indulgent daze.

Close to the entrance, she spies a box of bright pink, scaly produce she does not recognize.
Dragon
fruit, says the label. She picks one up. It is cool, smooth to the touch, almost like plastic. She wonders how it tastes, what it’s like inside. It is expensive, they don’t need it, but Luke might enjoy it, and Karen tries to encourage him to eat more healthily. She puts it in the trolley along with her regulars: bananas, grapes, apples.

She finishes her round of vegetables and stocks up on staples: bread, dried pasta, fish, chicken. At the end of an aisle, she sees a wheat beer on offer. Simon has always said North European lager is best: does Belgium meet his remit? She’s not sure, but she likes the design of the bottles, the intriguing mistiness of the liquid, and the price seems reasonable, so she scoops up a six-pack.

Past household cleaning and toiletries, she comes across a rack of children’s clothing; all the items are winter stock, on sale. A turquoise corduroy dress covered in roses is reduced to 40 per cent of its original price. She rarely gets presents for the children on a whim, but this is a practical purchase. The colours will suit Molly and it’s marked ‘
Age 4
’, so it will be a bit big for her and with luck will do for next year too, which makes it even more of a bargain. Karen puts it in the trolley.

That’s it: three impulse buys, hardly wild behaviour.

At the till she packs sensibly. Baked beans, tins of tomatoes, puree, and sweetcorn in one bag; washing-up liquid, loo paper, a bathroom scourer in another . . . She pays by debit card and as she waits for her PIN to be verified, checks her watch. There is still a lot of the morning left before she has to collect Molly. She can go home and unload, ready for the weekend. They haven’t got a great deal planned but she is happy at the prospect of family time, having Simon home. It is these two days each week she looks forward to, especially.

*

‘Wakey, wakey!’

Karen comes to with a jolt.

She is stopped in the entrance of the supermarket. A man is pushing against her empty trolley, struggling to get through the gate.

‘Oh, er, so sorry.’ She moves out of his way and with a sigh he wheels past.

She is at the supermarket she always goes to, in Hove. It’s Friday, the day she usually does the shopping; once more she is alone.

Last time she was here, she was buying food for Simon.

A week ago that afternoon, Simon phoned her to say he’d got off work an hour early. A week ago that evening, Simon went to the fridge for a beer as soon as he got in, moaned that she’d bought the wrong kind, then felt bad about being ungrateful so came to kiss her while she was cooking. ‘You’re lovely,’ he told her, to make up, and although she saw through his thought process, it made her smile. A week ago he and Luke sliced open the dragon fruit together, admired the exotic pale flesh inside, then tasted it, exclaiming ‘Yuck!’ and pulling faces, and they all laughed. A week ago he admired Molly in her new dress – ‘You look so pretty!’ – and gently chided Karen – ‘Though I hardly think our daughter needs more clothes’ – in a tone that said he forgave her.

A week ago . . .

Seven days, that is all.

And she is here again, preparing for his funeral.

She still feels as if this is happening to someone else; her real life is the one she had back then, this is an aberration. And what is she doing, anyway? She must be mad, thinking she can cater for dozens of people. She can barely function at the moment as it is. She should have let the staff at the funeral parlour organize it, as they had offered, and as Phyllis had suggested only yesterday. She has not been thinking rationally, using her basic common sense. It’s as if aspects of her personality have vanished along with Simon, leaving her floundering, like a mountaineer on treacherous terrain, lost in fog.

‘I feel I keep asking you to rescue me,’ says Karen.

‘You do not. I offered last night. So, where do you want these?’ Anna holds up a couple of tuna tins bound together in cellophane. They are in Karen’s kitchen, unloading the shopping. Half-unpacked bags cover the table and countertops. Boxes of wine and bottles of soft drinks are scattered at their feet. Toby the kitten is busy investigating, bounding in and out of the purchases, excited by all the different smells.

‘Let’s put stuff we’ll need here.’ Karen lifts the bags off the table to make room. ‘The tuna is for vol-au-vents. The mayo is in there.’

Anna laughs. ‘You don’t make it easy on yourself, do you?’

‘I wasn’t thinking very straight. I’d even made a list, but I realize now it was useless. I’ve no idea what I’m doing most of the time.’

Anna places the mayonnaise alongside the tuna. They are silent for a moment, concentrating. Eventually she says, ‘So how many people are you expecting?’

‘No idea.’

‘Roughly?’

‘Well, I emailed nearly sixty, then there are the people I phoned, and our neighbours . . .’

Anna tries not to flinch. It’s wonderful Simon was so popular. ‘Do you think they will all come?’

‘No, no, surely not.’

Anna hopes Karen has a plan of what to cook, as, from what she has seen so far, her friend hasn’t a clue where to start. ‘Did you have any recipes in mind?’

‘Um . . . Kind of . . .’

‘And when are Molly and Luke home?’

‘Tracy has them this morning. Phyllis is bringing them here about half one.’

‘Not that long, then.’

‘No.’

‘Never mind,’ Anna says brightly. ‘We’ll just make the most of the time we’ve got. When they get here, they can help.’

‘Right. They can help,’ Karen echoes. They stand back. By now the table is piled high with ingredients – goat’s cheese and tins of chickpeas, bags of frozen prawns, bacon, grapes, onions, olives, an aubergine . . .

Karen starts to giggle, hysterical. Soon tears are streaming from her eyes, she is laughing so much. ‘I’m sorry.’ She slows herself. ‘It’s just the idea of Molly helping with filo fucking pastry . . . Oh, dear—’ She laughs even harder.

‘Don’t be sorry.’ Anna is giggling too. Making canapés is a crazy undertaking; three-year-old hands will hardly speed matters. But there is something so cathartic about hearing Karen laugh again, properly, and swear, too, that however inappropriate it may seem, it is worth a dozen dumb suggestions.

Just then, the doorbell rings. They both jump, startled.

‘You expecting anyone?’

‘No.’ Karen frowns. ‘Probably someone local, dropping in a card or some flowers or something. The living room is rammed already.’ She pulls a face and clearly doesn’t relish the prospect. ‘Shall we just leave it?’ Her tone is illicit, colluding. It reminds Anna of their student days, when they would entice one another to go to the pub rather than studying.