The Love of Her Life (14 page)

‘It’s the same for you, Kate. I remember seeing your father in concert at the Festival Hall, and this little girl leaving with him at the end, you were jumping up and down and holding onto his hand and your mother’s, too. Between the two of them. Your mother, she was so beautiful. Red hair?’ Kate nodded, and he said eagerly, ‘Do you remember that evening?’

‘No,’ said Kate, smiling. ‘I don’t think so, anyway. That’s so funny. I never knew that.’

‘Brahms Violin Concerto.’ He shook his head. ‘Ah, he was wonderful.’

Kate could, in fact, vaguely remember the treat of that evening, of being allowed to come and see her father. It was a rarity, she hadn’t often gone. Her mother and father had argued about it, badly. She must have been about eight. She
remembered then not liking the South Bank, it was like an alien landscape, it wasn’t a London she was used to. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth and bit it, whistling through her teeth, the cold air stinging them.

‘He’s not very well,’ she said incoherently. ‘That’s why I’ve come back.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr Allan. He stared at her briefly. ‘What is it?’

‘Kidney transplant. He was very … he was very lucky.’ Kate didn’t trust herself to say more.

He nodded and patted her arm, as if she were a little girl again. ‘I am sorry. We both have our sadness then. Let’s cross the road.’

Suddenly Kate felt strangely at home again, standing on the side of a road, overlooking the park, with her neighbour Mr Allan. He was one of several people she hadn’t allowed herself to miss since she’d left. Concern for him flooded over her once again, on this strange and awful day for him, but as she turned to ask him something, he interrupted her brusquely.

‘Miss New York,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll show you what a foolish thing that is to say. Look. There. The Regent’s Canal –’ waving his umbrella in the direction of the bushes ‘– now that is something to admire. Perhaps we should go to the towpath and see, eh?’

There was the canal; there behind it was London Zoo. Kate stood still, and heard the faint but raucous cry of something; a chimp, perhaps.

‘There,’ said Mr Allan. ‘There’s a boat. My goodness.’

There was a narrowboat just pulling into a little docking station outside the Zoo. It was so strange, she thought, that she had never known or seen this before. Mr Allan made a sound, like a cough, and Kate turned to look at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Eileen loved the canal. This boat we used to get up to Camden Lock, from Little Venice. At least
once a month. She really did just love it.’ His voice trembled. ‘This is … Oh dear. Everything’s awful. That’s all.’

Kate didn’t know what to say. She took his arm and squeezed it. ‘Oh, Mr Allan.’ They stood there, on the canal bank, in silence. The trees were all in bud; sun flickered on the water. It was a beautiful day.

They heard a man on the narrowboat shout, ‘Last call for the boat trip please!’ Suddenly, Kate heard her little sister’s voice. ‘I wanna go on a boat trip!’

‘Mr Allan,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we get the boat back home?’

So they sat with the tourists, and the strange old man with a camera who took notes, and a moody girl reading a book, as the narrowboat sedately glided through the water, past the vast, white stucco houses with private launches and perfect gardens, through Lisson Grove, where three crusties on an old, rather dilapidated boat were trying to start a barbecue, through the long, dark tunnel cutting underneath Maida Vale and bringing them out in Little Venice, past the café, and the spot where Nancy Mitford used to live, and finally they arrived at the lake where the Regent’s Canal met the Grand Union Canal, and got out.

‘This is called Browning’s Pond,’ said Mr Allan, as they stood on the little bridge crossing over the canal, watching the moorhens slide through the water, and the Canada geese honking overhead. ‘Do you know why?’

‘No,’ said Kate.

‘Robert Browning. He lived there.’ He pointed to the houses overlooking the canal. ‘See that blue plaque there?

That’s for him. The house is demolished now. But they named it after him.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Lots of things you don’t know,’ Mr Allan said. He crossed
the road, and they walked next to the canal. Kate glanced up at the houses, the sunshine bouncing off the creamy white stucco, the blue grape hyacinths and daffodils bobbing happily in the gardens, and felt a sort of calm within her. She laughed, quietly, as they turned the corner, and crossed the road again.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing, really,’ she said. ‘Just … I didn’t expect to be doing this on my first day back. I don’t expect you did, either.’

‘No,’ Mr Allan said. ‘Kate, I didn’t. But I’m glad you’re here. Thank you.’

She patted his arm back. ‘I’m glad I’m here, too.’

They walked in silence a little while until Mr Allan said,

‘Are you writing anything at the moment?’

Kate wrinkled her forehead, slightly taken aback by the question. It had been a longish walk; she was surprised he wasn’t more tired, but he seemed absolutely fine. ‘Er … no. Why?’

‘I mean to say, what are you doing in New York?’ Mr Allan said. ‘Didn’t you get some wonderful job out there, that was what we heard from Sue?’

‘Ha,’ said Kate. She had to be careful, she realized. This was the scenario she had practised for, being back in London and answering questions about her job. ‘I’m working at a literary agency.’

‘Working with writers, you mean? At the agency?’

‘Something like that.’ Kate neatly sidestepped a cracked paving stone. ‘Be careful.’

‘Yes, yes.’ They were on Warrington Crescent, walking back up towards Elgin Avenue. The sun went in, suddenly. Kate looked up; grey clouds scudded from nowhere across the blue sky. She shivered.

‘So it was worth leaving for,’ Mr Allan said. ‘Eileen and
I always thought you’d win a Pulitzer prize one day. Or the Booker prize. Weren’t you going to be a magazine editor before you left? Sue always said you would.’

This was the thing with old people, Kate reminded herself. Their version of the past was totally unreliable.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I loved
Venus
, but I needed to get away …’ He was watching her. Time to roll out phase two. ‘And, you know, I wanted to see Mum – she left when I was fourteen, and I’ve never really spent much time with her, you know… It seemed like a good time to go, then.’

This was her stock answer, and it always worked. It was vulnerable enough to guilt people into accepting it, and it had the merit of being true, although that was far from being the whole story. Mr Allan said,

‘I’m sorry. So you’re back to see your father, and that’s fine with your – your employers, I suppose?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Kate. ‘Someone’s covering my job while I’m away, while Dad’s ill. I’m only here for a couple of weeks, and then I’m back there.’

‘Two weeks,’ Mr Allan said, sinking his head onto his chest. ‘I see.’ He blinked. ‘What will you do about your flat?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kate said. ‘Get someone else in, get an agency to rent it out, I expect. But I’m not staying. I don’t really live here any more, you see.’

‘Of course, of course,’ he said, and then they were both silent, walking in pace together until they were almost home.

‘That was quite a walk,’ said Mr Allan, taking off his deerstalker hat, while Kate unlocked the door and let them into the lobby of their building. ‘Phew.’

‘I’m knackered,’ said Kate. ‘Well done us. We must have walked – what, about three miles?’

‘Goodness gracious,’ said Mr Allan. He rolled his eyes and then smiled at her. They walked upstairs to his flat and Kate
waited as he jangled his hands in his pockets for his keys.

‘Dear Kate,’ he said, as he unlocked the door. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘Not at all,’ said Kate, almost laughing. ‘Thank you – I’m so sorry –’

He brushed her condolences aside again. ‘No, no. Thank you, dear girl. It was a wonderful morning. And – ah. Thursday –?’

‘I’ll buy the food,’ Kate said. ‘You don’t need to worry about a thing. Now,’ she said, bossily. ‘What are you doing for the rest of the day?’

‘Alec’s coming round soon, and Sue.’ Alec was a rather unlikely husband for Sue, a scholarly, quiet man who worked on the finance side of the magazine business, quite unlike his energetic, firecracking wife. ‘They’re bringing lunch, we’re talking about – about arrangements, you know.’

‘Right,’ said Kate, not wanting to meet his eye, embarrassed. ‘Well.’ She pushed her toe along the ground, gingerly, not wanting to leave him on his own, not wanting to be on her own, suddenly.

‘Don’t suppose you want to pop up for a cup of tea, later, they’d love to see you, I know.’

‘I can’t,’ she said, hurriedly. ‘I’d love to see them, too – but I’ll be at my dad’s.’

‘Of course,’ Mr Allan said. ‘Well, they’ll be gone by six-thirty, they have theatre tickets. How about after that, maybe a glass of wine?’ He made a gesture like a maître d’, welcoming her to a restaurant.

‘Sure!’ Kate smiled. Mr Allan smiled back. Her unease vanished, and she kissed him on the cheek, and went back downstairs, to her welcoming but echoing flat. She opened the door, humming a tune Mr Allan had been singing.

But as she was taking off her coat, her eye fell on something
on the floor. A letter, someone had pushed it under the door. No address this time. Just

It was Wednesday evening and Kate had been back in London for four days. It seemed to her as if the first twenty-four hours had passed in a flash, and from then on it was almost scary how easily she fell into a routine, one she’d been sticking to for months. Like the first few days at a new school, when after less than a week a need for normalcy makes it feel like you’ve been there for years, not days. She’d visit her father at home in the morning, usually when Lisa was out with Danielle. On Tuesday Lisa had given her a key so that Daniel didn’t have to answer the door. Then she’d come back to the flat and potter around for a while, making lists of things –
buy new pots for balcony
and
need
more teaspoons
– small tasks, never big things. She didn’t call the letting agent, she didn’t call Zoe again, though she knew she should. In the early evening, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, she’d go upstairs for a cup of tea with Mr Allan, and he’d tell her about Eileen, about their life together, and they’d sort things out for the funeral. Kate wasn’t sure how much of a practical help it was, but as he said, it was good to talk. She’d speak to her father again, and then go to bed, early.

She didn’t go into town, didn’t explore further than she’d walked with Mr Allan. She went to the supermarket, to get the food for Mrs Allan’s wake, but that was about it. She was back in London, but she might as well have been in another country still. She didn’t ring any old friends, or email anyone from the laptop she’d brought back with her. Francesca called several times but never left a message, and Kate simply let her phone ring and ring.

On Monday evening, she had rung her mother, but that merely served to unsettle her.

‘Darling, so what have you been doing?’ Venetia had asked brightly. ‘Lots of fun superb things? Catching up with all your friends? How lovely.’

‘Oh,’ Kate said uneasily, ‘Er, well … I saw Zoe.’

Venetia sounded insanely over-enthusiastic. ‘Lovely! How is she?’

‘Oh … Fine.’

There was a pause. Kate felt, as she did so many times, that she had never worked out how to show her mother her best side.

‘How are the party plans for Oscar going?’ she said, after a moment.

‘Oh, they’re exhausting,’ Venetia said. ‘I’ve booked us both into the hairdresser for the Saturday morning, I’m going to have rollers, you can have what you want – do you want a blow-dry? That’s probably best, isn’t it?’

‘Um,’ said Kate. ‘Not sure – can I –’

‘I don’t need to let them know for a while, but if you could have a think about it.’

‘Sure,’ said Kate, biting her little finger and trying not to laugh, because her mother was funny, especially from a distance. ‘And the party? All under control?’

‘It is going to be ah-may-zing,’ said Venetia fervently. ‘Less
than three weeks to go, my god. But you’ll be back before then, won’t you!’ Her voice rose a little.

‘Of course I will, Mum.’ Kate tried not to sound stern. ‘I said, right from the start, I’ve always said I’ll be back in lots of time, I wouldn’t miss Oscar’s party, would I?’

‘I know,’ said Venetia, sounding chastened. ‘It’s just – well, you know how I feel about London.’

She made it sound as if London were a war criminal on the loose, persecuting her. ‘Mum, you know, I’m really glad I came back,’ Kate said, hearing a certainty in her voice she did not feel. ‘It’s been so great to see Dad –’

‘Well, exactly. And how is darling Daniel?’ interrupted Venetia fondly, as if darling Daniel were a particularly beloved old friend of hers, or her pet dog, not her ex-husband from whom she had parted on the most painful terms, and to whom she would refer at dinner with her New York friends, after a few glasses of wine, as ‘that bastard Miller’.

‘He’s OK,’ said Kate. In truth, Lisa had told her that day, with a semi-exasperated sigh, that the doctors thought he wasn’t doing as well as he could be. He was a bad patient, that was the trouble. Nothing to worry about, the nurse who was to come and see him each day had said, but the transplant operation had knocked him for six – and they still wouldn’t know for a while whether the body might reject his new kidney or not. It was a waiting game, and he was no good at waiting for something over which he had no control – especially his own body.

On Tuesday, she called Perry and Co, to check in with Bruce Perry. For some perverse reason, she wanted her boss to know she wasn’t on holiday, she was back in London for a reason. She wanted him to think she cared about her job, didn’t she?

‘So it’s all going OK?’ she asked him.

‘Sure thing!’ Bruce’s tone was breezy. ‘We miss you, Kate! But we’re just about managing here, you know. Don’t you worry.’

‘So is everything OK with Lorraine? You don’t need …’

‘Hey, hey. Kate.’ Bruce’s voice grew louder, as if he were closer to the phone. ‘Lorraine isn’t you, please don’t misunderstand, OK? But she’s great!’ His voice grew distant again, as if he were announcing this to the office. Kate could hear someone laughing in the background. ‘She brought donuts in today for everyone! Krispy Kreme, no less. What a gal. And she’s changed a few things, it’ll make your life so much easier.’

‘Uhuh …’ Kate said. ‘Like what?’

‘A few corrections to the filing system, and she’s called a couple of authors to introduce herself. Personal touch. It was Doris’s idea.’

Kate kicked the skirting board in the hallway viciously, then hopped in agony. God, that dwarfy helmet-haired bitch Doris! She was a … bitch! She took a deep breath.

‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘What a great idea. Hey, I’ve got to go, Bruce, but I’ll call you on Friday, OK?’

‘No need, Kate!’ he said. ‘No call for it! You just focus on your dad, OK? And we’ll see you soon. Soon as.’

Yes, they were fine without her, just fine. No, she told the voice that said loudly in her head, ‘They’re not missing you at all, are they?’ That was the bargain I made with myself when I went to New York. A quiet life, no ties, no commitments. A life I can walk away from if I need to.

She just hadn’t realized
how
easy it would be to walk away from it. To be forgotten, melt into the background.

And it went on. On Wednesday morning, she visited her father once more and on her way back she went to the shops at the edge of Elgin Avenue, to buy a few final things she needed for Mrs Allan’s funeral tea the next day, and a
newspaper. She marched up to the desk and deposited her wares on the counter.

‘Hi,’ she said, brightly, and she realized it sounded almost desperate. She
wanted
to talk to the shopkeeper, wanted some human interaction.

But he just nodded, and shoved everything into a bright blue plastic bag, and when Kate said ‘I don’t need a bag’ he looked at her coldly, as if she’d just been sick on the floor.

Kate said, feeling insane, ‘How are you today?’

In New York, they would have known her name by now, smiled with utter delight when she walked in, have everything piled up and in her own bag in three seconds, and engaged in mundane but satisfying small talk while they made change. The strip lighting above the till hummed. A car outside revved loudly, and silence reverberated in the shop as the man behind the counter nodded, politely, but said nothing.

‘Well … Bye,’ said Kate. ‘See you later!’

She walked out, her bag swinging by her knees, feeling mad, wanting to talk to herself, shaking her head. Suddenly, the spell of the last few days was broken. Wednesday stretched ahead of her, lonely hours spent in the flat she’d thought would be her first married home, and the only respite conversation with two old men, one sick, one grieving, one her father, one her neighbour. She opened the front door with a heavy heart.

And then Francesca rang.

‘So, stranger,’ said the voice on the phone, as Kate slid over and upright, as upright as she could get on the sofa. ‘What. You’ve been back for practically a week and you don’t call me. How kind. What’s up?’

‘I think I’m going mad, Francesca,’ Kate said. ‘I need a drink.’ She paused. ‘How are you? Are you well?’

‘Fine,’ said the reassuring voice, so cool and collected. ‘I’m
still at work. Give me thirty minutes. I’ll meet you at Kettners, in the bar. Eight, OK?’

‘Er …’ said Kate, suddenly getting cold feet. That was the Centre of Town. She hadn’t banked on having to go into the Centre of Town.

‘That’s my best offer,’ said Francesca. ‘Take it or leave it. I’m not schlepping over to you. I’m in Clapham, remember, or is your geography shot to hell now you’re a New Yorker?’

‘Shut up,’ said Kate indignantly. ‘Of course it’s not. I’ll take it. Eight p.m. See you in a bit. Bye –’

But Francesca had already put the phone down.

This, then, was it. The centre of town, the tawdry, pulsing, utterly confusing centre, filled with sights and smells and sounds. She had missed the pre-theatre chaos; coming out of the tube at Piccadilly Circus, Kate almost smiled at how awful it was, this centre of her beloved home city. The Trocadero, Eros, Shaftesbury Avenue – all marooned in a sea of traffic, swelling tourists, horrid, feral pigeons and the hotdog stands, with the ever-present smell of reconstituted pigs’ eyelids, fried and sweating next to rancid onions. In New York the streets were wide, Times Square may have been Disney-fied but it was clean and friendly and open all night, and the adrenaline rush of walking through it was incomparable. There was order there, she never understood people who said New York was chaotic. This – this, she thought, as she walked up Shaftesbury Avenue, dodging caricaturists, lounging men in cheap leather jackets, angry white van drivers, gaggles of tourists with backpacks bigger than them, as she turned into the bottom of Wardour Street –
this
was chaos.

As she stepped into Soho, the traffic eased off. She walked past the little school and the church with its graveyard, so unexpected, down Old Compton Street, where a few brave
souls were sitting out in the night air, celebrating the relative warmth of another sunny March day. Nostalgia was nudging her, the memories of evenings at Pulcinella’s, or the tapas place round the corner, the Mayflower back across the road, or the Dog and Duck on Dean Street – she had spent vast amounts of her twenties in one of those places. And Kettners.

Kettners hadn’t changed, she was relieved to see. It still kept its old-world, almost frowsy charm, a certain faded elegance mixed with a buzzy atmosphere, old-fashioned waiters who were proper waiters, not out of work actors who wanted to let you know they were great at every available opportunity. No, Kettners was old-school. It had been one of Kate’s favourite places in London. She smiled at the girls behind the cloakroom counter and turned right, down a step, into the bar by the restaurant, where the old guy sat at a piano, singing ‘Someone to Watch over Me’ – it was always ‘Someone to Watch over Me’. Memory and emotion washed over her, and she paused on the step, momentarily disorientated.

‘Oi,’ said a voice in the corner, and Kate looked over to see Francesca slumped on a sofa in the corner, her suit jacket bunching up, the shoulder pads standing up inches higher than she. Her long dark hair fanned out about her shoulders. She smiled at Kate, and patted the leather cushion.

Kate knelt on the sofa and hugged her, remembering as she did so how thin Francesca was.

‘It’s great to see you,’ she said.

‘You too,’ said Francesca. ‘About bloody time, too. Do you know it’s been …’

‘Two years,’ Kate said. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

Francesca said, unexpectedly, ‘I know you are. Let’s not get into all that.’ She cleared her throat and said dryly, ‘Not until we’ve had a few drinks, anyway. There’s a bottle of champagne on its way.’

The house champagne at Kettners was famous – it was cheap and good. A dangerous combination.

‘Great.’ Kate rubbed her hands, the excitement of being out finally hitting her.

‘So. How’ve you been?’ Francesca said, as a waiter gingerly placed an ice-bucket on the table and two glasses.

‘No,’ Kate said firmly. ‘How’ve
you
been? I’m sick of myself, tell me how you’ve been. You look great, Francesca.’

‘Screw that,’ said Francesca. ‘Kate, the mystery woman, comes back all of a sudden, and I’m going to spend the evening talking about loan structuring and how much I hate London Bridge, and how my boss is a total fucking pig? Idonthinkso. Come on, Katy. How the fuck have you been? Tell me.’

And, as if watching herself from the ceiling, Kate heard herself say, ‘I don’t think I should have come back.’

‘Back to that flat?’ Francesca nodded, and poured the champagne. ‘I did wonder, you know.’

‘Really?’

‘Course,’ said Francesca. ‘I wouldn’t have, that’s for sure. Why couldn’t you stay with someone else?’

‘Zoe?’

‘Well, yes –’

‘I know,’ Kate said weakly. ‘She’s just got so much on. And what with everything. I didn’t want to …’

‘Yep,’ said Francesca. She handed Kate a glass. Kate took it. She took a huge gulp of it, and the fizzing bubbles stung her nose, but she let them. It reminded her, as it always did, of something; what was it?

‘How’s she been?’ Kate said, not wanting to hear the answer.

‘You’ve seen her though, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Kate assured her. ‘I may be crap, but I’m not
that
crap.’

‘Hm.’ Francesca raised her eyebrows, and then she smiled, her serious dark eyes crinkling with warmth. ‘Maybe you’re not, darl. Zoe.’ She took a sip of champagne. ‘She’s OK. You know she’s back at work now?’

‘She told me,’ Kate said.

‘It’s – it’s time for her to rebuild her life.’

‘Two years and nine months.’

‘Of course,’ said Francesca. She ran her palm, flat, over her forehead, and Kate remembered that Francesca had loved Steve, long before Zoe had appeared on the scene. She had been his first girlfriend at university. Kate nodded at her, eyes narrowed.

‘Hey!’ Francesca said sharply, and she brought her palm square down onto the low table in front of them. The other drinkers looked around in surprise. Francesca said in a low voice,