The Astonishing Return of Norah Wells (18 page)

Adam watches Norah walk around the bedroom. She hums and with the tips of her fingers, she traces the pieces of furniture Fay bought for the room.

Don't touch them
, he wants to say.
They're Fay's. They're ours. They're nothing to do with you.
And he should say those things. For Fay, at least. For the new life they've built together with the girls. And for what he and Fay shared a few hours ago, in the bedroom of her cottage.

But when he looks at Norah there's another voice in his head. A voice that says
I've missed you.

‘I found Willa outside,' Norah says.

His chest tightens. Willa was outside? In the middle of the night? He's losing it again – his grip on his family, his role as a dad. Fay has to come home: he can't do this without her.

‘We thought she was getting better.' He pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘She hasn't sleepwalked in months. We'll have to be more careful.'

‘Like old times, eh?'

He nods. ‘Kind of.'

Although Ella had done everything to be like Norah, it was Willa who was most naturally like her mother. She looked like her. She lived impulsively. She invited everyone into her life without questioning who they were or where they came from. And she sleepwalked. And yet Willa hasn't got a clue who Norah is – before she showed up on the doorstep yesterday morning, Willa didn't even know Norah existed.

‘Willa's been telling me some fox stories.'

He doesn't answer. He doesn't want to be drawn into Norah's attempt to paste over the past.

‘I'm sorry,' she says.

‘Sorry?' What a pointless word, he wants to say.

‘I'm sorry the accident happened,' she adds. ‘I'm sorry I wasn't there for her. For you.'

He turns straightens the bed sheets and closes the curtains. If he does things the way Fay would, maybe this conversation won't feel like so much of a betrayal.

‘Amazing how much she loves the foxes. I mean, considering…' Norah says.

‘Considering they hurt her?'

For a moment, he holds her gaze.

‘She says there are still foxes that come into the garden.'

He can tell by her tone that she's on Willa's side. Norah, always ready to believe in the miraculous.

He shakes his head. ‘After the attack, traps were set all over the area. Illegally, of course: we're meant to use humane deterrents. But people were angry at what happened to Willa – it got a lot of press coverage. Anyway, the local foxes were either hunted down or they ran away. There shouldn't be any left.'

‘What about the cubs she found?'

‘An anomaly. Pest control did another sweep through the neighbourhood. They said it was a one-off.'

‘So she dreams them up?'

‘I suppose they're like her imaginary friends.'

‘She seems pretty convinced that there's a Mrs Fox about to give birth.'

‘She's a little girl; she likes to tell herself stories.' He hears the impatient tremor in his voice. Norah was always like this: took children at face value. Gave in to Ella's whims. Acted like she was one of them.
Peter Pan
, isn't that what Fay used to call her?

And if Fay had insinuated that Norah was a child, he'd made it worse by treating her like one. He'd bowed to her whims, had given her too much of the wrong kind of love.

What pathetic parents they'd been.

Fay's the real mother in all of this. The woman he loves. He says this to himself over and over.
Fay, the woman I love
…

‘Which side do you sleep on?'

‘Sorry?'

‘I'm just interested.'

There's no just to Norah's interest. She's pulling at the layers he's built over his years with Fay.

Adam nods at the right side of the bed.

Norah raises her eyebrows. ‘You never liked the right side.'

‘Fay needs to be close to the bathroom. Her irregular hours, her night shifts.' He clears his throat. ‘And she likes to be near the door for when Willa comes in.'

‘Right.'

Norah walks over to Adam's bedside table and picks up a photograph she saw when she first walked into this room, but this time she notices it, how Adam's face is pressed to Fay's, how wide their smiles are. And how the girls are smiling too as they squint into the sun.

Adam takes the frame out of Norah's hands. ‘Don't.'

As his fingers brush against hers, a shock runs through his arm.

He clenches his jaw.
Fay, the woman I love
…

‘Adam?' Norah looks up at him.

Divorce. Death. There are guidelines for those. You get angry and lash out. You mourn. But disappearance? It doesn't allow you to let go, to turn your love from a living thing to a memory.

Norah steps closer.

Tell her to leave
.
Tell her to turn round and walk out through the door and never come back.

‘I missed you,' she says.

He closes his eyes.

It's fifteen years ago. Fay's gone to sleep. They're in her living room. He and Norah had only known each other for a few hours and already he's sure she'll be in his life for ever.

Norah leans in again, her breath warm, her lips, the shape of her mouth, achingly familiar.

Tell her to leave
…
he thinks, but his arms draw her in.

The shape of her feels different. He lifts the hem of her T-shirt but she puts her hands over his and pushes them away.

‘Not there,' she says.

He breathes into her hair. ‘I've missed you.'

She lets her weight fall into his arms. So small and frail he could wrap her up and make her disappear.

‘I never found anyone else,' she whispers. ‘You know that, don't you? That I've never loved anyone but you.'

She makes people love her,
Fay had said that once about Norah. And he'd tried to disagree, to say that loving someone was a choice, but Fay was right, wasn't she? Norah pulled people in.

He holds her tighter.

And then his phone rings.

They jump apart.

He takes it out of his pocket and turns away.

‘Hello?' His hands are shaking.

A pause.

‘Adam?'

Christ.

‘Adam, it's me.'

Blood rushes to his ears. He watches Norah move to the other side of the room.

‘Can you hear me?' asks Fay.

‘Yes… Sorry… Yes, I can hear you.'

‘I've got Ella.'

‘What?'

He can't think straight. Ella with Fay? That doesn't make any sense.

‘She came over. She was upset.'

‘She came over to you?'

Another pause.

‘Yes, Adam. She came over to me.'

He's offended her. Fay's worked so hard to build a relationship with Ella.

Adam looks at Norah.
God, what have I done?

‘I'm going to let her crash on the sofa for a few hours,' says Fay. ‘We'll come round at lunchtime with the cake.'

‘You're coming back?'

‘I'm coming for Willa's birthday. Like I promised.'

‘Of course.'

‘Adam?' Her voice softer now.

‘Yes?'

‘Thank you – for coming earlier.'

He looks at Norah. God, he's betrayed them both, hasn't he?

‘Adam? Everything okay?' Fay asks.

Adam watches Norah pick his clothes up off the chair. He should have told her to leave. He should tell her to leave now.

‘Yes, everything's okay.'

‘We'll see you tomorrow, then.'

Something drops out of the pile of Adam's clothes that Norah is holding.
Damn
. He forgot to empty his pockets.

‘Adam, are you still there?'

‘Yes, yes. Of course.'

‘I said we'll see you tomorrow. We'll get a taxi.'

Norah bends down to the floor.

The phone goes dead. Fay was waiting for him to say something, that he was grateful she was looking after Ella, that he was sorry, that he missed her. She was waiting for him to say
I love you
.

He switches off his phone and goes over to Norah.

‘I'm sorry,' Norah says, giving him the small velvet box. ‘I was trying to find somewhere to sit. This dropped out.'

He'd filled out the divorce petition for missing spouses. Had carried the ring around for weeks. Planned to propose this weekend, on Willa's birthday.

He takes the box and shoves it into the top drawer of the dressing table.

‘Was that Fay?'

‘What?'

‘On the phone?'

He goes over and holds open the door.

‘I think you should leave.'

‘Adam —'

He looks out into the dark landing and waits for her to move.

‘We need to talk,' Norah says.

She comes and joins him at the door, too close. He steps away.

‘There's nothing to talk about.'

‘Yes there is, Adam. I have to explain. I have to tell you why I came back —'

‘Not now,' he says, and closes the door on her.

Norah can still feel his touch.

She looks up to the attic and thinks about how Ella can't face being in the same house as her – and how the person she has turned to is Fay.

I love you,
Norah's last words to Ella on that snowy November day at the school gates.

She goes down to the next landing and pushes open Willa's door. Louis lies asleep at the foot of her bed. Even when Willa was a baby he guarded her, like Ella did too. Willa's two sentinels.

After leaving Ella at school that day, Norah took Willa straight to Fay. She pushed her pram down the high street and kept walking until her face and hands were numb with cold.

It was the busker who had made up her mind. That glowing figure in a rainbow jumper who had stood on the streets of Holdingwell ever since she could remember. Sometimes she thought that he was a ghost who followed her around, someone only she could see. And then she'd invited him to play at Ella's sixth birthday, preferring the idea of paying him rather than an entertainment company. Parents had complained – a man with dirty nails and a ragged rainbow jumper playing strange jazz tunes to their children. But Ella had loved it, and that was all that mattered.

On the day Norah left she stood in front of him, Willa in her arms, her crying turning to gulps and then hiccups and then deep breaths – and then she'd grown quiet, stilled by his playing.

Norah had closed her eyes, feeling the vibration of the instrument on her lips, her fingers on the stops, the melody rising up through her ribcage – and then the lights, the audience, her black velvet dress sweeping the stage.

The man lowered his trumpet.
Are you all right?
he asked.

He knew, didn't he? That she wasn't all right. That soon she'd be gone.

Just keep playing,
she'd answered. Because that's what she needed more than anything.

He nodded, put the trumpet to his lips and continued with his tune.
A wonderful world
…

Yes, he knew, otherwise he wouldn't have played that song.

She'd believed in those words once, that there was such a place, and she knew that if she stayed she would never find it again.

How long had she stood there, listening to him? It might have been a minute or an hour or a day. She'd stayed until her body was full of music, until it felt alive again. Until she knew she had no choice but to leave.

 

Downstairs, on the camp bed, Norah watches the shadows of dawn flit across the room. She slips her hands under her T-shirt and touches the scar next to her right breast. Had she imagined Adam glancing at her chest, his eyebrows coming together as he tried to make sense of the lone breast swinging under her T-shirt?

He hadn't wanted to talk, but she'd have to tell them soon. And then they'd understand – and then they'd want her to stay, wouldn't they?

Norah reaches down for her handbag and rummages around for her phone. She can't help scanning the messages. He always stays in touch: sends her a quick text to check that she's arrived safely, emails photographs of Nat, leaves her a voicemail on his way home from the surgery. But this is different. She hasn't gone abroad for a concert tour or taken a trip to a European city for a recording. She's gone back to her old life. And she asked him not to get in touch, to give her a few days to sort everything out. She made him promise. But still, she looks to see whether he's contacted her.

Before she switches off her phone, she sends a tweet.

Her agent sent her on a course,
it's important to feed your fans,
she'd said,
to keep them connected
. And then, embarrassingly, Norah got addicted to checking Twitter, to following, to sending messages to strangers. She'd got lonely, and this made her feel connected. It gave her hope that she might see them again.

As she puts back her phone, she notices that her CD isn't there, the one she wanted to give Ella, and that her purse has been flipped open. She turns it over – the photographs are the wrong way round. And the one of Nat is missing.

The world has been up all night and it's only now, at dawn, that it's going to sleep.

It's going to sleep in the small stone cottage on Fisher's Lane, where soft white roses grow over the door.

In the lounge, near the boarded-up window, sleeps the teenage girl, the dust of icing sugar on her lips. She dreams of the day she stood in the Holdingwell Café, playing the trumpet with The Mother Who Left. She's transported by her mother's playing, by the breath of her little sister, fast asleep in her pram, by what feels like a hundred eyes looking at them, by the feeling that life couldn't get any better than this.

And then she hears a cry, and when she looks down she sees that the pram is empty and as she turns round there's no one playing beside her and the café is empty – but there's a figure at the door, she's holding a cake in the shape of fox, lit up with candles.
Make a wish,
she says,
make a wish
…

In the upstairs bedroom of the stone cottage, The Mother Who Stayed climbs out of bed, takes her duvet and lies on the floor. She strokes the rug where the father lay only a few hours ago, where they'd made love and fallen asleep together and, when she'd woken, he was gone.

Across town, on Willoughby Street, in the tall red-brick house, a slideshow plays behind the father's closed eyes. All the photos he's ever taken. They're blank. A brilliant white blank.

A floor below him, the little girl's head presses heavily into her pillow. She takes the hand of The Mother Who Left. The little girl points at the fox that darts across the garden and, together, they start running, faster and faster, until their feet no longer touch the ground, until they take off and disappear…

And below the little girl, curled up on the camp bed in the lounge, The Mother Who Left holds a hand to her chest and feels the rise and fall of the place he touched.