The Flavours of Love (8 page)

I love Imogen. I can trust her, rely upon her, but I can’t tell her this. I don’t need any more judgement. I suspect she will judge me, like everyone who knows has judged me so far. Even Fynn, who did his best to reassure me the other night, probably judged me. They were right to – every conversation I have with Phoebe reminds me where I’ve gone wrong, where I’ve missed an opportunity to guide her, point her the right way. Even if she wouldn’t listen, those conversations – as difficult as they would have been – should have been waiting there like a secondary generator at the back of her mind, ready to kick in and help her when she needed guidance on what to do next.

I’ve failed her – in pretty spectacular fashion – and I don’t need any more external decrees of incompetence about that right now.

‘Yes, it was fine. Well, it will be – we have a few things to iron out first.’

‘Oh, good.’ Her concerned face softens. ‘I was so worried. You’ve been through so much, and you’ve managed to be so brave, I couldn’t bear for anything else to happen to you.’

Neither could I
, I think.

‘Is there someone in your car?’ she asks. I turn to look at my blue four-door parked a little way down from my house. Aunty Betty hasn’t moved from the car but she has unwound the window, so she can hear what we’re talking about, while doing a very good impression of being asleep. She’s not, but she’s probably thinking that if she appears asleep we will talk freely and give her access to some of our secrets.

‘Yes. That’s Joel’s Aunty Betty. You met her at the … at the … at the funeral. She was the one who sang “Amazing Grace” instead of a reading.’

Wearing a black dress and black hat, Aunty Betty stood at the pulpit with the order of service booklet in front of her. She cleared her throat as if to read and slowly raised her gaze until it was resting on me, on Phoebe, on Zane who were one either side of me, snuggled as close as possible.

She smiled at us and then she began to sing. Her voice carried across the skin of grief on the people in the church, soothing every person it touched, pricking tears into everyone’s eyes. I didn’t know she could sing like that, or she could make a song sound so enchanting, and every time I think of it, the skin on my body pricks with goosebumps. She’d done it to give Joel something special, something to remind us all of the special place he had in her heart.

‘Oh, yes,’ Imogen says. ‘I thought she lived somewhere near Middlesex? Here on a visit, is she?’

No, she’s been thrown out of her home for shagging on the managing director’s desk so she’s pitching up here until I find her somewhere else
. ‘Erm, yes, something like that.’

‘Looks like she’s fallen asleep, would you like a hand?’

‘No, you’re all right, you’ve already done so much for me. Thank you. I’ll see you later.’

Reluctantly, Imogen curls her arm around her son and they start to leave. I wait until they have got into their car and driven away before I put my hand on the gate to go in. As I do so, a miracle happens: Aunty Betty opens the car door and steps out. She is regal and grand about it, of course, but it’s odd seeing her do something this ordinary. Naturally, she has a reason for opening her own car door and stepping out unaided.

‘I don’t like that woman,’ she says. Her line of sight – disapproving and contemptuous – is focused on the direction Imogen has driven off in.

‘I’m sure she’ll be devastated,’ I reply, sourly.

‘Child, she’s a grief vampire. She feeds off other people’s grief.’ When I don’t comment she adds, ‘I’m old, remember? I have been around this for many, many years. I have lost so many people, too many people, and I have seen people like that one several times. They need other people to be broken so they can feel useful. They hook into the bereaved and live off them.’

‘You didn’t even speak to her just now, and must have spoken to her for about five minutes at the … at the funeral, how can you make such bold pronouncements?’

‘At my age, you don’t need much time to see people for who they are.’

‘Obviously not.’

‘I don’t like that woman,’ Aunty Betty repeats.

‘So you said. And I find it incredible that you’re standing there bold as brass spouting all this stuff about one of my friends when you haven’t spoken in over three hours. Call me strange, but I was thinking maybe an apology, or even a simple explanation might have been forthcoming.’

Her silence is my reward.

*

‘I’m back!’ I call to my children. The woman behind me ‘
Ah-he-hem’s
me. ‘
We’re
back!’ I correct.

I wasn’t exactly expecting a thunderous stampede, but to have no acknowledgement
at all
is humiliating. In the living room Phoebe is on the sofa, on her phone; Zane has his Xbox controller in his hand, a
Star Wars
game on the screen.

‘We’re back!’ I repeat, louder this time.

‘Hi, Mum,’ Zane calls. He doesn’t even bother to turn his head to toss that over his shoulder – he remains focused on the screen.

‘Not even a little bit curious who I mean by “we”?’ I ask.

‘Uncle Fynn?’ Zane replies, still uninterested; while silence continues to emanate from Phoebe.

‘I think you’ll agree that I am far more interesting than that giraffe
who claims to be your uncle,’ Aunty Betty says. She opens her arms and steps out to give them easier access to her.

‘Aunty Betty?’ Zane shouts. He throws down his controller and jumps to his feet. He hurtles at her, virtually shoving me aside to hug her. From residing in the world on her phone, Phoebe is now here, in the real world, her face lit up like it is Christmas morning at who is here in her living room. She drops her phone and is on her feet, ready to wait in line to steal a hug from her aunt. Guilt oozes into my heart: we haven’t been to see her since Phoebe’s birthday in February, more than three months ago. Joel used to see her at least once a month because she had no one else, and he’d often take the children. They’ve obviously missed her, and it’s been my responsibility to keep up with those visits and I haven’t. These past two days have made me wonder what I’ve been doing with my life. I know I’m always busy, always on the go, but I seem to have been sleepwalking my way through it all, missing out big, important chunks of time.

Aunty Betty studies Phoebe like she did me the first time she met me – seeking a weakness that will give her something to tease her beloved great niece about. ‘Well now, haven’t you been the busy little bee?’ she says with a cunning but playful grin.

Phoebe, who has obviously forgotten what a wind-up merchant her great aunt is, seems to grow ten feet taller and wider, her face a vicious snarl as she swings to me. ‘You told her I’m
pregnant?
’ she screams at me. ‘I can’t believe you!’

Aghast, Aunty Betty draws back, and blinks in fright. Zane stops hugging his great aunt and rotates on the spot to stare at his sister with his mouth open.

How can someone of the ‘hooking up’ generation make such a rookie mistake?
I wonder.

‘Your mother told me nothing,’ Aunty Betty stutters. I’ve never seen her panic like this before, she never usually shows remorse for the things she does and says, so to hear her speak so respectfully is as alien as her opening her own car door. ‘I say that sort of thing to everyone to get them to confess something to me. You know that.’
She keeps looking at me, pleading with her beautifully made-up eyes for help. I ignore her. Even if I did know how to speak to Phoebe without enraging her, which I don’t, I wouldn’t help Aunty Betty in this instance – apologising will be good for her.

‘I’m sorry, Phoebe, I really had no idea what the situation was.’

Zane has closed his mouth, but his ten-year-old face is honed on his sister’s stomach. Any moment now he’s going to reach out and prod her abdomen. He is fascinated with pregnant women. He knows the biology of how babies are made, but he’s currently curious about why they have to stay in your stomach for so long, how they feel when they’re in there, and if they’ll know if you poke them. I’m always aware when we pass pregnant women that I may need to stop him from making contact with their bumps. I will also need to ask him not to talk about this. It’s a burden to put on a child, but until Phoebe decides what she wants to do, it’s better no one knows.

Aunty Betty has stopped speaking. She isn’t used to apologising, it must taste very strange and unpleasant in her mouth, something I’m sure she won’t want to sample again for a long time.

All eyes are on Phoebe in the silence after Aunty Betty’s apology – we are all waiting to take our cues from her, wondering what she’ll do now she knows she’s exposed herself. What she’ll do, apparently, is burst into loud, uncontrollable tears.

After the madness, when my family have been herded off to bed, I gather up the post from the day and I sit at the kitchen table. I have the light from the cooker on instead of the main light, and sit still for a moment, pause, catch my breath.

Zane and Phoebe are both asleep, Aunty Betty is unpacking some of her belongings; most of them, though, are piled up in the corridor or in the corner of the living room. Zane and I managed to bring them all in from the car, at which point I admitted defeat – I couldn’t take it all up three flights of stairs to her room in the loft, too. And Zane was so exhausted afterwards he could barely bring himself to complain about having fish for dinner.

Phoebe, who I suspect was more distressed by crying in front of us than outing herself, escaped upstairs until dinner time, at which point she made it clear by the look on her face that she wanted no one to bring it up again.

Aunty Betty was contrite and quiet for most of the evening, and even offered to wash up after dinner to show sorry she was (for upsetting Phoebe, not for tricking me into letting her move in).

Everyone headed off upstairs at the same time and I’d sat on the edge of Zane’s bed and asked him if he could bear to keep Phoebe’s pregnancy a secret for now. ‘Too right!’ he’d replied. ‘Do you know how babies get inside? I’m not telling anyone she’s done that!’ Then added: ‘She has done that, hasn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ I confirmed.

Now, I can sit at my dining table and be alone for a while. I spend a lot of time in here because it was Joel’s favourite room. Everywhere else in the house we shared the input into decorating, but here, Joel
took over. He knew exactly what he wanted – the range cooker over there, the stainless steel fridge behind me. The double sink, the rolltop edging on the white marble worktops, the shelves on the walls for the dried food, herbs and oils. The white floor tiles. It all came from his vision, his idea of the perfect kitchen for creating his culinary delights (and his many, many disasters, but we never talked about them).

I pretend to myself I can feel him in here, sometimes. That I can see him standing at the cooker, wooden spoon in hand, turning constantly to talk to me or to catch the latest footie scores on the television on the wall behind. That I can recall him standing at the worktop, fork in hand as he mixed a batter for gluten-free blueberry muffins. I can sense him opening the fridge and staring into it, wondering what it was exactly he wanted when he went there. And I can hear him, dressed in his black Run DMC apron, singing, ‘
J-J-J-J-J’s House!
’ right before he started cooking.

The kitchen is about more than just his cookbooks being lined up neatly next to the knife block, and a line of herbs on the window sill, or the selection of pans and utensils he’d assembled. It is about him being there, at the table, at the sink, at the stove, at the window, at the back door about to go out. I remember how he was everywhere in this house, but mostly in here. In this space that was his.

I idly leaf through the mail. A lot of them are white or brown window envelopes containing demands for money and I can ignore them for now. These days, bills don’t cause my stomach to clench with the sheer terror of not being able to afford them, but I still don’t open them straight away. After Joel died and I spent all those months trying to sort out his ‘affairs’, I promised myself I wouldn’t let things become so disjointed and disorganised ever again. I’d keep on top of things so whoever had to sort out my ‘affairs’ had an easier time of it. I’ve let that slip.
Again
. I must get back on top of it, I must sort things out.

Among the bills and leaflets and circulars one letter stands out. It is in a cream envelope without a postmark or stamp but addressed
to
Saffron Mackleroy
with my full address. I turn it over in my hands, considering it. The formal nature of fully addressing it suggests the person was going to post it to but changed their mind and came all this way to deliver it from wherever they were. I assume they live a way away because otherwise, why write to me in the first place?

The writing in blue ink is uniform but not neat, considered but a little wild. It is written in straight lines, perfectly centred on the envelope. I don’t recognise it, and very few people I know would write to me. My mother is one, but that’s rare these days and she wouldn’t travel from London to post it by hand. I slide my finger under the flap of the envelope and rip it open.

‘
I’m really sorry to have to tell you this,’ the she one says. She stops speaking and looks to the man beside her for help
.

‘
Your husband has been involved in an incident,’ the he one continues
.

Incident. ‘
Incident’ not ‘accident’. What happened was on purpose
.

‘
Is he all right? Where is he? Can I see him?
’

‘
I’m sorry,’ the she one says. ‘I’m so sorry.
’

My fingers are numb, my body is numb, my entire being is suddenly without air. There are a dozen little splattering thuds of blackberries falling onto the ground, there’s a crash of a white ceramic bowl hitting a white ceramic tile.

I knock over the chair as I push myself away from the table, away from the letter I’ve opened and started to read.

I stand in the centre of the room, trembling as I stare at two sheets of cream A4 writing paper, folded carefully into thirds that are splayed open like an upturned hand on the table.