Your Roots Are Showing (7 page)

Instead, as Lizzie pulled up outside the familiar two-story mock Tudor house, she found herself altogether unheralded. Nobody was watching for her. Nobody had sensed that this was her hour of need. The lace curtains in the kitchen window didn’t even twitch.

Was it possible they’d forgotten she was coming?

“I’m hungry,” Ellie grumbled as Lizzie unbuckled car seats.

“Me too,” groaned Alex. “I’m hungwy like I’m eatin’ somethin’ right
now
!”

They ran ahead of Lizzie and fell against the back door, wrestling each other for the privilege of opening it. Lizzie followed them through the deserted kitchen, which at least smelled of roasting meat, into the lounge where she found her mum and dad placidly watching TV.

Lizzie’s father tore his eyes away from the screen with difficulty. “Oh good, you’re on time. That’s a nice change. Mind you, we’ll still have to wait for the food because we calculated you’d be forty-five minutes late, at least.”

Lizzie’s mum was bouncing both children on her knee and inhaling the scent of their hair in great gulps, apparently in complete bliss. “Hello, love,” she called to Lizzie over her shoulder. “Alex, you little monkey, what do you have in your pockets? They’re digging into me.”

“Oh, jus’ fings,” said Alex. “Stones an’ stuff. I’ll show you.”

“I’m just going to finish watching this bit about global warming,” Lizzie’s dad said cheerfully. “Would you get James a Guinness? I put a couple in the fridge for him.”

“Yes, and put the kettle on, dear,” added her mother, deep in admiration of the contents of her grandson’s pockets. “I’m sure you’d like some tea after the drive.”

Lizzie took a slow breath and forced out the words, “James. Isn’t. Here.”

Now, surely, they’d notice something. Her mother’s famous sixth sense would kick into action. They’d jump up and crowd around, offering Rescue Remedy and/or medicinal brandy.

“Oh. Working, is he? Still that house in Scotland?” Surely her father didn’t usually sound this nonchalant?

“No. Not working. Listen, Dad, will you come into the kitchen?”

“In a minute, love. I’m just watching this program.”

“Dad. Please.”

Her mother began to stand up, children screaming with laughter and clinging to her disappearing lap.

“No, Mum. Stay with the kids. I just — I need to talk to Dad.”

Her father looked at her with narrowed eyes. Without a word, he put down the remote control and shot after her into the kitchen. With the air of a conspirator, he closed the door behind them.

“What is it, love? You in trouble? Smashed the car or something?”

“Smashed the —? Why would you think that?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know. Sort of thing that happens to women. Your mum did it once with the Renault. Remember the Renault? She tried to have it fixed on the quiet, but I cottoned on.”

Lizzie shook her head impatiently. “No, Dad, it’s nothing like that. I wish it was. It’s — oh God.” She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. “He’s left me.”

Her dad stood and looked at her for quite a long time.

“I beg yours?” he said at last.

“James. He’s left me. Gone. Packed his bags. Moved out. Dad, will you
stop
staring at me?” And she burst into tears.

That was when the medicinal brandy came out. And the Rescue Remedy. And suddenly Lizzie’s mother was in the kitchen too, and Lizzie found herself stooping over to cry on that warm, familiar shoulder. Her mother still smelled of Yardley English Lavender. Was that a maternal obligation — never to change your soap or your perfume so your children would always know the smell of you? Just recently, Lizzie suspected, her own smell had been a powerful cocktail of sweat and tears, with undertones of lime and gin.

Between sobs she muttered, “The children. Got to pull myself together.”

But her mother said, “You cry as much as you like. I’ve let them loose on a Dairy Milk Tray in the garden.”

Lizzie gave a snort through her tears. “So much for lunch,” she said. “I’m s . . . sorry.”

Her father paced the kitchen restlessly, clutching a corkscrew in a white- knuckled grip. “Never mind lunch. Where’s the bastard now? Shacking up with his floozy, I suppose. I’d like to — I’d like to . . .” He made a disemboweling motion at crotch level with the corkscrew.

Lizzie gave a watery, shocked giggle. “Dad. Don’t. It’s not like that. There isn’t another woman.”

Her mother shot her a shrewd look. “Another man, then?”

Lizzie gasped, appalled. “No! For God’s
sake
! No.”

“I meant
you
, not him, sweet pea. These things happen, after all. A little flirtation with some friend of his, some chap you both know. Harmless stuff, but men overreact to these things. I mean, look at what’s-her- name on
Eastenders
.”

“There’s no other person involved.” Lizzie sank down into a kitchen chair and held her face in her hands. “It’s just us.”

All of a sudden, it seemed to Lizzie, that bald fact made everything so much worse.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie.” Her mother crouched down and patted her on the back. “What on earth is it all about?”

Lizzie felt herself coloring to the roots of her hair and the soles of her feet. “I — I really can’t say, Mum. It’s kind of personal.”

Lizzie’s mother and father locked eyes. Then, simultaneously, her mother gave a tiny shake of the head and her father made a discreet throat-cutting gesture with his corkscrew. Knowing she wasn’t supposed to be noticing this silent communication, Lizzie dropped her eyes quickly. Into the pregnant silence, her father said bracingly, “Well, on the bright side, love, all of England will soon be a tropical island.”

Lizzie’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Global warming.” He threw out his hand in an airy gesture. “We’ll be the new Mediterranean.”

In spite of herself, Lizzie had to smile. “That’s nice,” she said. “Maybe there’ll be palm trees in Kent.”

“Cornwall’s already got them,” said her Dad. “Here, have a glass of this Syrah. It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”

“Why Kent?” asked her mother keenly, like a bloodhound on a trail. You couldn’t put much past Lizzie’s mother once you had her attention.

Lizzie took a sip of the wine. “Got a bit of a gamey taste, almost. Wouldn’t you say, Dad?”

“Why Kent?” her mother asked again.

Lizzie put down her glass. “Sorry,” she said. “I should have told you before. Ages ago. The thing is, I’ve sort of — moved there.”

From: [email protected]

Sent: 01 May

To: [email protected]

Lizzie, EXPLAIN! What does “kind of personal” mean? Has he gone impotent or something?

J

From: Lizzie Buckley [email protected]

Sent: 01 May

To: [email protected]

Not him, Janie. Me.

L

P.S. See forwarded note, Blue Monday. The first time round, forwarded bloody note went to James instead of you.

On Monday evening Tessa arrived with a purple wig for Ellie, a water pistol for Alex, and a pile of Internet-generated research on postpartum depression for Lizzie. “Consider it a housewarming present,” she said.

“Couldn’t you just bring a plant or a bottle of wine, like a normal person?” Lizzie complained, dumping the pile down on a kitchen counter. “I’m not depressed. I’m just —
depressed
.”

Tessa shrugged. “It won’t kill you just to look at the stuff,” she said. “I mean, considering I stayed up half the night printing it out.”

“Really, I would’ve much preferred some French cheese, you know. How was France, anyway?”

Tessa spread her hands over her belly. “I don’t know,” she said with an enigmatic smile. “We’ll have to see. Come on, let’s have the guided tour of the house, then.”

“Ah,” Lizzie nodded. Tessa and Greg’s three-year quest to become parents was well-known territory. “It was that sort of trip, was it?”

Tessa grinned. “You know, I feel really hopeful this month,” she said. “I think the timing was right, that’s if you can trust the basal thermometer. But let’s not jinx it with too much talk. Show me the house.”

“Okay.” Lizzie gestured grandly at the space around them. “
La cuisine
,” she announced.

“It’s very — white,” said Tessa.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet.” With a certain grim pride, Lizzie showed her the rest of the place.

Tessa stood in the doorway of Lizzie’s room, surveying the inflatable mattress under its jumble of linen, the piles of clothes against the wall, the fireplace full of ash, and the white sheets fluttering gently at the windows. She whistled softly between her teeth, momentarily speechless.

Lizzie waited for comment. When none was forthcoming, she said defensively, “I like it. For now, anyway. It’s airy and light and — and minimalist. I’ve had a bellyful of antiques and brocades and acanthus bloody moulding.”

Tessa tilted her head to one side and then the other. “So when will you get furniture?” she asked.

“I have a bed. What more do I need? It’s a bit like a cell in a monastery, don’t you think? Spartan. Simple. Functional.”

“I think monks are tidier,” Tessa said. Then she surprised Lizzie by turning to her with eyes full of tears and folding her in a tight hug.

On Tuesday afternoon Lizzie took Tessa’s bundle of research on depression out into the garden so she could riffle through it while keeping half an eye on the children. She’d never really considered that she might be suffering from depression in any official sort of way, but she owed it to Tessa to at least take a look.

She took a secretive bite of her Mars bar, managing to conceal it from the children, and began reading.

Most of the stuff was very heavy-going, but at last she came across a quiz similar to the ones she sometimes filled out in magazines on subjects ranging from “Doormat or Doberman: What’s YOUR confrontational style?” to “Flirt, Femme Fatale, or Frump: What do your wardrobe choices say about YOU?”

Lizzie started answering the depression quiz. “Do you find it difficult to fall asleep at night?”
Who doesn’t?
“Do you feel as if you lack the energy to accomplish simple tasks?”
Only on bad days
. “Have you lost your appetite?”
Not as such
. “Do you find yourself eating a lot more than usual?”
Hang on, that’s a bit personal
. “Have you put on or lost a significant amount of weight recently?”
Bloody cheek
. “Have you lost interest in sex?”

Lizzie put down the quiz in disgust.

At that moment a disreputable-looking vehicle towing a trailer loaded with garden machinery pulled into her driveway.

Some sort of landscaping service. Of course, it couldn’t be . . . She knew for a fact it wasn’t . . .

Hurriedly, she stuffed the Mars bar into her pocket before bundling up the depression papers and stowing them facedown on the doorstep with a brick on top to keep them from blowing away.

A man got out of the filthy van in leisurely fashion and strolled toward the house. Lizzie couldn’t help noticing that his arms were very brown and muscular, his hair very curly, and his eyes a bright and twinkling brown. In short, she couldn’t help noticing that he was the cheeky bugger who called himself Bruno.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he hailed her over the fence. “Would you mind if I mowed your lawn?”

The children ran to the gate. “Where’s dat dog?” cried Alex. As if in answer, they heard a bark from inside Bruno’s car.

Lizzie looked at the man with disbelief. “You want to
mow
my
lawn
? Be my guest. Just don’t expect me to pay you.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t charge a penny. I won’t even expect payment in kind.” He gave a lewd wink. “I just can’t stand to see a garden look this way. Hey, don’t pull that kind of face — I can prove it! I did some tidying up for the people who lived here before, completely gratis and out of my own free will — ask Ingrid Hatter. They were hopeless with the garden, too. I cut back the hedge on the other side of the kitchen one weekend out of the goodness of my heart, not a single ulterior motive in sight. Of course, they did give me dinner and lots of white wine.”

Lizzie shrugged. The man was obviously slightly touched. Who went around working on other people’s gardens just for the heck of it? “Well, don’t expect
me
to ply you with cups of tea, let alone white wine.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll just drink out of the water bowl I brought for Madge.”

“You do that.”

She stamped back into the house, calling for her children over her shoulder. They didn’t come, of course, so she had to go out and carry them inside, one under each arm.

Later, the man had the nerve to knock on her door. He was holding the bundle of papers on depression.

“It’s just beginning to rain,” he said.

She took the papers awkwardly from his hands. One loose leaf flew off and floated gently to the ground. “Loss of Libido: Causative or Symptomatic in Postpartum Depression?” the headline screamed. Lizzie swooped down to pick it up. “You have a noisy lawn mower,” she said and closed the door in the landscaper’s face.

Storming back to the kitchen, Lizzie dumped the pile of depression research directly in the bin. Bloody Tessa! Not for the first time in the course of their long friendship, she felt like wringing her friend’s neck.

Another neck she’d have liked to wring was Ingrid Hatter’s. Lizzie had gone off Ingrid completely the moment she realized that she — Ingrid — had been gossiping about her — Lizzie — with the landscape gardener — Bruno. So when the two met the next morning, dropping off their black rubbish bags at the end of Back Lane, Lizzie was as frosty and standoffish as she knew how. In Lizzie’s case, this meant not offering to help Ingrid pull her countless rubbish bags off the roof of her four-by-four.

“I was saying to Clive last night what a treat it is to have someone really friendly in the cottage,” Ingrid bellowed as she lugged a bag off the roof rack and dumped it on the curb in one fluid movement, completely oblivious of the fact that she’d ripped a good-sized hole in the black plastic in the process. The odor that wafted through the hole was indescribably foul. Lizzie — parked in by Ingrid — could do nothing but cover her nose and stand her ground. She maintained a stoic silence to mark her new hostility.