Rainy Day Sisters (31 page)

Lucy

LUCY BARELY SLEPT THAT
night; the wind gusted down the street and rattled the windowpanes, but it was the thoughts chasing one another in her own head that kept her awake.

The argument with Juliet had stung more than she'd thought possible. She'd craved her sister's support and received her scorn. And she'd hurt Juliet, she knew, with her own unkind words. It felt as if the relationship they'd worked so hard to build had shattered in the first breath of a storm.

And as for Alex . . . and Poppy and Bella . . .

Lucy rolled onto her side and tucked her knees up to her chest. Could she ignore her mother, her mother who had
cancer
, for the sake of little more than a kiss? Alex might have said he was serious about her, but only because Juliet had been lecturing him. They hadn't had the chance to see how a relationship would work out, how she'd fit into his life and he into hers.

And anyway, if Alex was serious, he would wait for her. He'd understand she needed to go to her mother, and he'd wait until she came back. It was only for a couple of weeks.

Although Lucy knew she couldn't promise that it would be such a short time. Fiona might need her for longer than a day or a week or even a month. Surgery, chemo, recovery . . . It usually took months or even years before you were cancer free. Lucy had no idea how much of that process Fiona would need her for. How much she would be willing to stay for.

By six in the morning Lucy was up, showered, and mostly packed. She'd booked a five p.m. flight back to Boston, and arranged to take the train to Manchester Airport. Juliet had already left to walk the dogs; they hadn't said a word to each other that morning.

All Lucy had to do now was talk to Alex. A little before eight she headed up the street to school, a feeling of unreality coming over her at the realization that this was the last time she'd walk into the primary school, turn on the copier and the kettle, and welcome the children who streamed past her window.

Alex came in just as the kettle was coming to a boil; he'd already dropped Poppy off at the Breakfast Club.

“Good morning,” he said, and gave Lucy a tentative smile. “I didn't get a chance to talk to you after that phone call. . . .”

“I know. I'm sorry about that.”

“How was it? Everything okay?”

“Well, no, not really.” Alex frowned and Lucy continued. “My mother was on the phone last night—”

“I know.”

“She told me she has cancer.”

“Lucy, I'm sorry—”

She plowed on, knowing she needed to say it all. “She's having a double mastectomy tomorrow. I told her I'd be there.”

“Tomorrow? But . . .”

“I need to leave soon for a late-afternoon flight from Manchester. I'm so sorry for the last-minute notice, but I didn't feel I had a choice.”

“No, I understand.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “The timing's terrible, but that's cancer for you.”

“I thought Maggie Bains could cover for me until Christmas. And then Nancy Crawford is coming back.”

“Don't worry. We'll manage. We'll be fine.” He dropped his hand and stared at her. “But I didn't mean the timing was terrible for school. I meant for us.”

He held her gaze and Lucy was the first to look away. “Yes. Well. I hope I'll be back in a few weeks. Sometime in January, maybe.”

A second's pause, heavy with meaning. “Maybe?” Alex repeated.

“I don't know how long she'll need me, but I want to come back, Alex. I
will
come back.”

She wanted him to believe her, but judging from the way his expression hadn't altered, she didn't think he did. And she wasn't sure she believed herself. She had no idea what to expect when she reached Boston.

“Well, you have to do what you have to do. Of course.” He took a step back, as if distancing himself from her. “Anyway, this might work out for the best. For us, I mean. I haven't even checked the policy about dating staff. It would be better if we didn't announce a relationship until you'd finished at the school.”

He sounded as stiff and officious as he had when she'd first met him. Lucy felt as if there was an awful subtext to everything they'd said that she didn't want to be there. This felt like a far more final and formal farewell than she'd meant it to be.

“Okay, well. I can stay the morning, until you can arrange for Maggie to come in. My train for Manchester doesn't leave until two.”

Alex waved a hand. “No, I'm sure you have things to do. You might as well go. We'll manage.”

“Okay.” She wanted to kiss him, or at least hug him, good-bye, but the mood wasn't right and children were starting to come up the hill. “I'll call you,” she said, and he nodded.

“Yes. Call me.” And he turned away before she'd opened the door to go.

Sixteen hours later Lucy stood in the foyer of her mother's luxury apartment in Boston's Back Bay, exhausted and overwhelmed and emotionally very fragile.

“Lucy.” Her mother pressed her cheek against hers, the closest she ever came to hugging. “You're so good to come.”

“Of course, Mum,” she said woodenly. She'd spent the eight-hour flight from Manchester wondering if she was making a mistake. If she should have made more promises and given an exact date for when she'd return, or even if she should have gone at all.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, and her mother sighed and sat down on one of the ivory leather sofas in the living room. She looked the same, her silver hair cut in a sleek bob, the lines on her face making her look elegant and experienced rather than just old. She wore a loose caftan top in beige silk and a pair of cream leggings, an outfit that would have made Lucy look like a potato but that Fiona wore with glamorous ease.

“Rather annoyingly well. I didn't have any symptoms besides this wretched lump. Thank goodness I had it checked out. I'm going to write a piece for
The New Yorker
about the importance of yearly mammograms. I've already had it accepted, on spec.” Her mother smiled, seeming almost contented, and Lucy tried to suppress her irritation and even disappointment. Had she really wanted her mother to fall apart, to make her feel needed?

“Well, I'm glad,” she said awkwardly. “I'm terribly jet-lagged myself. I might get some sleep.”

“All right.” Her mother waved a hand towards the hall leading to the apartment's three bedrooms. “Do you mind using the little bedroom? I haven't made the bed up yet, but I've turned your old bedroom into a home studio.”

Even though she had studio space in the city's South End. “No problem,” Lucy said, and went in search of sheets.

It was too late to call Alex, but she thought about it. Then she thought about calling Juliet, and realized that was whom she really wanted to speak to. Before she could overthink it, Lucy dialed Tarn House on her cell phone, only to have it ring and ring without anyone picking up. It was the middle of the night there, and she knew Juliet was probably in bed. She shouldn't have called; she might have disturbed the guests. But she'd really, really wanted to talk to her sister.

She lay down on the narrow cot bed in the third bedroom that Fiona used for storage. Boxes were piled all around and canvases lay stacked against a wall. The room smelled both musty and of turpentine, and was hardly the most pleasant accommodation in what was otherwise a luxury apartment. But of course her mother needed her home studio.

The next morning Lucy woke gritty-eyed and groggy; her mother was in the kitchen, drinking a protein shake.

“I'm packed,” she said. “We should leave by eleven.”

“Okay.”

Lucy sank into a kitchen chair and glanced at her mother; despite the brisk airiness, she looked a little thinner, a little more fragile, her hair more white than Lucy remembered, although she was only fifty-eight. Old age and death would come for Fiona Bagshaw, tour de force though she was, just as they came for everyone.

“How are you feeling about the operation?” she asked, and Fiona gave a twitchy little shrug.

“Well, you know. I'd rather not go through it, but . . .” She trailed off, her expression distant, and for a moment Lucy could see beneath the brisk confidence to a surprising vulnerability and fear. “I do want to thank you for coming back to Boston,” she said, still not meeting Lucy's gaze. “I know after everything that happened with that little gallery showing, you probably didn't want to.”

Ah, there was the familiar sting. “Little gallery showing, Mum?” Lucy repeated. “It might have seemed little to you, but it was a lot more than that to me.”

“Oh,
Lucy
.” Her mother drained her protein shake. “You always take everything so seriously.”

“And you don't?” Lucy retorted. “You take your own art pretty seriously.” A sudden surge of anger overwhelmed her, surprising her with its fierceness, especially considering the circumstances. Her mother was about to go in for surgery; surely she could let slide a few barbed remarks. “The way you drone on about boobs and penises makes me think you take it very seriously indeed.”

Fiona's mouth tightened, just as it always did, just as Juliet's used to. “That's because my art is serious, Lucy, even if you never seemed to think so. Or perhaps you're just jealous.”

“Jealous?”
Lucy's mouth dropped open. “I've never been jealous of you, Mum, or your success. And although you may find this hard to believe, I wanted you to come to my showing because you're my mother, not because you're famous Fiona Bagshaw, the
artist
.” She turned away abruptly, hating that her mother still had the power to hurt her.

Fiona didn't answer for a moment. Lucy could hear the ragged tear of her own breathing and she closed her eyes, wishing that her mother didn't affect her this way. She was too tired and fragile for this now.

“I haven't proved to be much good at that role,” Fiona finally said. “I think I'm better as Fiona Bagshaw the Artist than Fiona Bagshaw the Mother.”

Lucy stared at her mother with her mouth agape. “I didn't know you even tried,” she said, shocked at the spite in her voice and yet knowing she meant it utterly.

“What did you want me to do, Lucy?” Fiona asked, eyebrows raised. “Wear a frilly apron and bake cookies for you and your friends? I was never going to be that sort of woman.”

“You don't have to resort to stereotypes,” Lucy protested. “But as it happens, yes, baking cookies or even buying them from the store would have been nice.
Thinking
about me once in a while—”

“Do you really believe I never thought about you? Never cared about you?”

Lucy considered the handful of happy memories she had of her mother, of those rare times when she'd felt as if Fiona actually cared. They'd been so
fleeting
. Her mother would give her a moment's attention when she'd been a child and then move on. “‘Never' is a strong word,” she said. “But it's pretty close to how I feel.”

“I admit I haven't been the best mother,” Fiona said after a pause. “But I'm not completely thoughtless. I chose not to go to your gallery showing for your sake, Lucy, not mine.”

“So you've said. But I really don't see how writing that awful editorial was doing me a
favor
.”

“I know it probably didn't look that way—”

“That,” Lucy interjected, “is a
gross
understatement.”

“I wanted you to succeed on your own terms, Lucy, like I did. Trust me, it means so much more—”

“Fine. I get that. And actually, Mum, I wanted that too. I never traded on your fame. I usually tried to avoid it.”

“I know,” Fiona said.

“You could have just said you weren't going to go,” Lucy said, her voice cracking. “
Privately.
Why did you have to go and write an editorial about it? And trash my paintings in a national newspaper? You were making it as hard to succeed as possible, but I don't even care about that. It was the fact that my
mother
was treating me that way that hurt so much, not that the famous Fiona Bagshaw didn't like my work.”