Laying the ghost, p.13
Laying the Ghost, page 13
But either way, did it still count as intrusive, if he never found out about her recent recce? Kate would say it didn’t. She would say it was just human nature, perfectly forgivable; but what, for example, would Mimi say? Teenagers had a very straightforward take on some kinds of morality, real extreme black/white, right/wrong stuff. Not, obviously, that she’d be telling Mimi any of this; which, Nell realized, rather answered her own question.
Work. That was still waiting to be done. She’d deal with the Patrick dilemma later. Much later. Maybe she’d keep him till after a good day of work and an early supper with Mimi. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have plenty of evening time in which to think through what to say. And the social calendar for the coming weekend wasn’t exactly hectic either, featuring a massive stack of laundry to be dealt with and – such a highlight – a silly, boozy Sunday evening at Evie Mitchell’s. This was to be an all-women gathering to which they’d been asked to bring ‘mistakes’: clothes, bags, shoes they’d bought in a spirit of either daring, sale-induced madness or that ever-optimistic it’ll-fit-when-I’m-down-to-size-ten moment. The idea was to see if anyone else would fall on them in delight and claim they’d always wanted a lilac net micro-skirt or scarlet sequinned shoes. Evie proudly called it recycling. For a woman whose garden electricity would, on its own, run a small town, she had a funny notion of the term ‘green’, but it promised to be a fun way to spend an evening.
Nell opened her copy of Dr Hessayon’s Vegetable and Herb Expert and turned to the section on tomatoes and their ailments. Blossom End Rot, she read first. It sounded almost gynaecological: some unpleasant ailment resulting from sexual neglect, perhaps. Nell found several photos of the results of this affliction and it didn’t look appealing: the ends of the fruit were wizened and leathery. It was, she read (and possibly returning to the sexual neglect theme here), a result of over-dry conditions, as opposed to a condition called Blotchy Ripening, for which one of the causes was too much heat. No chance of that, she thought, as she started sketching a large, bushy tomato plant on which she must demonstrate foot rot, stem rot, eel worm, leaf mould, blight, wilt and a form of hormone damage which no amount of HRT would cure.
It was no good. While the computer sat there alongside her, inviting Nell to play with it, she couldn’t concentrate on the right colour to choose to depict Buckeye Rot (raised brown markings in a pattern that resembled crop circles). She pushed the layout pad aside and tentatively began typing a draft letter to Patrick, coming up with what seemed like a reasonable introductory sentence (Patrick – is this a huge surprise?), then immediately deleting it. She had another go: Patrick – I know it’s been a long, long time, then deleted that too on the grounds of feeling she didn’t need to state the obvious. He would only sneer at her. This was harder than she’d thought.
In the end, she wrote a brief note about having come across his address by chance, through a friend (well, Steve had been the one who actually found it, and Kate had been a helpful navigator), and that now being so much older, she felt that it was time to catch up with friends who had been important. She read it over again. It sounded spontaneous and friendly and yet … did it sound as if she’d got something terminal and was calling up people to say goodbye? Suppose he came rushing to see her, thinking she was about to drop dead, and then felt cheated because there she was, alive and well, simply having a nostalgia-fest and indulging a whim and too much curiosity? Not that he’d be delighted to think she was about to go into that tunnel at the end of the light … not even Patrick would be so bitter. Not after so long.
Eventually she made a tentative suggestion about maybe meeting up once more, rather than waiting till the time came to meet on the ledge. He’d get this reference to a Fairport Convention song that he’d remember from his brief folkie phase. It was a track he’d played over and over till he’d become haunted by thoughts of his own mortality. Bored by his mood, she’d reminded him that at a healthy twenty-two, his death shouldn’t be any time soon. He’d given her a cold look and simply said, ‘No, it shouldn’t.’ And she’d wished she hadn’t said anything. Reminders of too-early death brought him down for days.
She printed out the letter, then decided it looked too formal as typescript and copied it out by hand. It was better like that, more personal, but it also made her feel more vulnerable, somehow. She hoped he’d be happy to hear from her – it could go either way. She kissed the page for luck, sealed it into an envelope and stamped it, then left it on top of the closed laptop while she drew the outline for the tomato plant. She would, she decided, give it a couple of hours before she posted it, just in case.
‘Your neighbour’s taking a very keen interest in what I’m up to.’ Steve’s head appeared round the studio door, some time later. ‘He’s asked me if I’m a friend of yours.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Nell asked. ‘Aren’t you a keen supporter of Neighbourhood Watch schemes?’
‘On the whole, yes.’ Steve grinned. He caught sight of the football table and started casually twisting the handles, positioning the players. ‘Has he got the hots for you then, that bloke?’
‘Who? Charles?’ Nell laughed. ‘No! He’s close to seventy and what used to be called, in polite circles, a confirmed bachelor!’
‘Seventy? No, this one wasn’t. He was definitely younger than that. Early to mid fifties? Looked a bit old-hippie-ish, very peace, love and lentils.’
‘Ah, that’ll be Ed, his brother. Much younger. He only lives there part-time. Their mother owned the house and Charles lived with her. Ed’s got his own place in Dorset but lives up here in the week. He teaches at the sixth-form college.’
‘Right. Well, he seemed a bit grumpy to me. Not delighted to meet me. Was he a great mate of your ex? He’s probably protecting territory or something.’
‘Friend of Alex?’ Nell snorted. ‘No! I think Ed considered Alex a bit of a tosser, actually. Alex once told him that education after sixteen was a waste of time for ninety per cent of the population unless they were doing something useful or practical. Ed teaches English literature so you can imagine how that went down.’
‘Hmm.’ Steve was practising, using the line of five red forward players and aiming the ball at the blue goal. It crossed Nell’s mind that Steve might have sided with Alex, not Ed. She didn’t know him well enough to be sure, but that didn’t stop her suspecting.
‘Fancy a game?’ Steve looked up and smiled at her. Those blue eyes again … She really mustn’t think of him like that. If Kate knew, she’d march her out to the local Ann Summers and make her buy that Rampant Rabbit. Or worse, send her a box of condoms, tell her to cook him a seductive supper and order her to get on with it.
‘Yeah, OK. Tomatoes with Ghost Spot and Sun Scald can wait a bit longer.’
‘Blue or red?’ Steve asked.
‘Manchester United or Chelsea?’ Nell said, automatically going to the red players.
‘Too obvious.’ Steve was already carefully lining up his team. ‘Let’s be Liverpool and Everton.’
How much later could it have been? It probably wasn’t the best moment for Mimi to come crashing into the studio. The tournament, best of ten games, had ended in a draw and Steve was giving Nell a final-whistle hug, nothing more, when Mimi, scowling and furious, stormed in. ‘Mum! What are you doing?’
Nell pulled away from Steve, laughing. ‘Hi, Mimi! Er … this is Steve – he teaches the self-defence classes I go to. We … were … well, playing football, you know, just having fun!’ She felt as if Mimi had turned into her mother and that she was the fifteen-year-old, caught out with a boyfriend. Ludicrous.
Mimi flung her schoolbag on the floor and glowered at Steve. God, Nell thought, it was only a quick end-of-match hug – it’s not as if we were swopping shirts or something. Something in Mimi’s expression told her it might not be a good idea actually to say this. She was probably hungry: she often came home from school trembling with low-blood-sugar starvation and frantically searched for doughnuts or biscuits.
‘I can’t get into the house!’ Mimi wailed. ‘It’s all locked up and the front door chain’s on, even. Why’s the back door locked?’
‘That’s because we’re out here,’ Steve pointed out, bravely, in Nell’s opinion. ‘If it was unlocked, any burglar could just walk in and nick your iPod.’
‘How d’you know I’ve got an iPod?’ Mimi glared at him, suspicious and wary.
‘Because you’re an affluent teenager. Of course you’ve got one.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s not in the house. I’ve got it with me, for like lunchtimes and the bus and stuff? So – can I get into the house now, please? I’ve got homework to do.’ She gave Steve a look of prim innocence, picked up her bag and stood waiting for them to turn back into grown-ups.
‘You’ll need this,’ Steve said, handing her a key. ‘There’s a new lock on your back door, a much better one.’
‘Thanks,’ Mimi said, at last cracking into something that was almost half a smile. ‘Are you … coming too?’
‘Yes, I’ll be right there,’ Nell said. ‘I just want to clear up a bit here.’
‘Fine.’ Mimi gave her a final glare and stalked off, leaving Nell sure that her daughter suspected that she and Steve were going to fall on each other in a passionate frenzy the moment she was safely in the house.
‘A post-match cup of tea?’ she offered Steve.
Steve laughed. ‘No, thanks. It’s time I was on my way. I’ll see you at the class on Tuesday, Nell. Don’t forget your blunt instrument.’
‘OK, I won’t. And thanks, Steve, that was fun.’
‘No worries. I had a great afternoon. Oh …’ He picked up the envelope from Nell’s computer. ‘I see you decided to contact him, then?’
‘Yes … well, it seemed a good idea. I’m still wondering if it really is.’ A bit of her wanted to rip the envelope out of Steve’s hands and tear it up. Another part wished she’d sent it many years ago.
Steve grinned. ‘I’m going past the post office; do you want me to shove it in the mailbox for you?’
It was a decision that would be out of her hands then, literally, Nell thought. She hesitated only one more second and then said, ‘Yes please. Thanks.’
‘So who was that then?’ Charles asked Ed. ‘He’s been banging away half the afternoon.’
Not a happy choice of terminology, Ed thought. The man was clearly taking the moron’s route to Nell’s heart. If the old saying was that men could be wooed via their stomachs, modern folklore surely had it that women could be won by way of a big power tool and a firm hand on a screwdriver.
‘He’s some friend of Nell’s and he’s been replacing her back-door lock and adding a bolt. Extra security, he said.’ He’d looked at Ed as if checking out what kind of a threat he’d be on a dark night, and whether he could handle the challenge. Ed was taller and broader but the man’s expression had said one thing: a scornful ‘Nooo problem’.
‘And what was all that hilarity then?’ Charles persisted, as if Ed had X-ray vision and as much curiosity as his brother. ‘All that laughing and yelling in her studio.’
Ed shrugged. ‘No idea. What Nell gets up to in the privacy of—’ He stopped. He was sounding like a jealous old grump. He was turning into Charles. He really should watch it. After all, it was good for Nell to be laughing like that. It had been far too long since he’d heard that. Yes, of course it was good. Really good.
* * *
‘I shouldn’t be coming to this. I’m too young for all your lot and that vile Polly Mitchell will think I’m a saddo, going out with my mum,’ Mimi grumbled as she and Nell walked down the road towards the Mitchells’ house. The purplish lights in their garden were almost fluorescent. It was like the landing spot for an alien craft.
‘You didn’t have to come,’ Nell told her. ‘You could have done what you usually do on a Sunday night and flop out on the sofa with your phone, the remote and a bag of satsumas.’
‘Don’t pick on me,’ Mimi moaned. ‘At least it’s not crisps.’
Nell wasn’t going to win, because there wasn’t anything to win. Why, then, did this feel like a fight? Sometimes teenagers made you so weary. All the same, she understood it was some kind of honour to have Mimi with her, especially given her loathing of Evie’s daughter Polly. Unless, as was likely, there was an ulterior motive.
‘Who’ll be there?’ Mimi asked with grudging interest. ‘I hope they’ve brought some good stuff.’
Ah – so that was it. This ‘mistakes’ night had the potential for treasures and bargains, though possibly not the sort a girl of fifteen would be interested in. Evie and friends weren’t exactly Topshop’s target customers – there wasn’t likely to be a lot on offer that Mimi wouldn’t turn her nose up at as being geriatric.
‘I think she’s invited about a dozen. Kate’s coming, and Isabelle from opposite, just friends, locals and that. Anyone she knows who isn’t a wise shopper, I suppose!’
‘Will he be there?’
‘Who?’ They’d now reached the Mitchells’ ornate iron gates, and Nell rang the security bell. Steve would approve – Don had got this place rigged up with all manner of burglarproof gadgets. If he could have got away with broken, jagged glass stuck to the top of his side walls, he’d have had the nearest bottle-recycling bin craned over the gates, bought a ton of cement and made it his weekend DIY mission in the fond hope of severing a villain’s artery. Nell shielded her eyes from the glare of the lights and looked at Mimi, curiously. ‘Who do you mean?’ she repeated.
‘That bloke.’ Mimi looked at the ground, mumbling. ‘The lock man, you know …’
‘Oh, Steve!’ Nell laughed. ‘No! Of course not – why would he want to come to an evening of women messing about with reject clothes and shoes? I’m sure he’s got loads better things to do!’
The buzzer went and Mimi pushed the gate open. ‘He fancies you, Mum. Just watch him, that’s all.’
‘Mimi – he doesn’t, OK?’ Nell caught hold of Mimi’s arm and stopped her halfway up the path. ‘But … if he did, would it matter so much? I’ve got to have a life as well, you know. I don’t see why all the fun should be Alex’s. God knows …’
‘No!’ Mimi shook her off. ‘No, Mum, it’s not that! It’s him, just something about the way he looks at you. It’s …’ She shuddered, dramatically overexaggerating. ‘It’s not nice.’ She shrugged, defeated by her lame choice of adjective.
Sex wasn’t ‘nice’, Nell thought, not if (to paraphrase Woody Allen) you’re doing it right. It could be sleazy, sticky, sweaty, rank, raucous, ecstatically, blissfully filthy; anything but nice … Mimi didn’t know all this yet – God, at least she hoped she didn’t. Maybe they needed another talk … a backup one to the earlier birds-and-bees stuff. Why didn’t teenagers, like pedigree kittens, come with a starter pack containing a few essentials? Some comfort reading like Nancy Mitford’s The Pursuit of Love would be good for those miserable, can’t-face-anyone days, a big bag of minty chocolates (for same), some slushy, rom-com DVDs for when he only texts one-worders, skincare that works, zit-zapper stuff, plus condoms and detailed instructions on how to use them in case the school hadn’t quite got it covered. A book on how to read boys would be useful too, but no one seemed to have written that one. Perhaps the author of Kate’s After He’s Gone divorce-survival guide could give it a go as her next project.
‘Look, please don’t worry about it,’ she told Mimi as Evie opened the door. ‘Nothing’s going on. Steve just teaches the class and he fixed the locks, OK? As you would say, “end of”. Now let’s go and see if I can offload these Joseph trousers and that red jacket that just didn’t go with anything. I’m counting on trading them in for some cashmere.’ An evening out, she thought as she walked into Evie’s café au lait hallway. Not quite the defiant, survivalist glitz and glamour recommended in After He’s Gone, but it would do for a March Sunday.
Evie, as ever, had got everything brilliantly organized. At one end of her long, peachy sitting room she’d put up clothing rails and hangers for her guests’ contributions, and she’d set up a table full of didn’t-quite-work handbags. There were also many, many of the shoes that all women, deep down, know the truth about: if they hurt even a teeny bit in the shop, they’ll always hurt. This will never stop a smitten woman from buying them once they’ve sent her heart rate skyrocketing.
Kate was there, settled in a squashy chair in front of a coffee table that was covered with delectable Marks & Spencer’s party snacks. She was drinking a large glass of white wine and munching her way through the lot.
‘I should have brought Alvin to this do,’ Kate was saying, as she tried to force a lime green wedge-heeled shoe on to her foot. ‘He was a mistake.’
‘Just the one, Kate? All mine were,’ Evie’s sister Marie said, looking woeful. ‘All four of them. Some things I never got the hang of. He only had to walk past the bed and I was pregnant.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Like that.’
‘I had to do a bit more than that, but even so,’ Kate giggled, downing the last of her wine and holding her glass out to Marie for another. ‘Even so, it wasn’t hard. Well, when I say not hard, obviously I don’t mean …’ She and Marie collapsed with mirth.
Nell saw Mimi and Polly look at each other and raise their eyes heavenward. Such disapproval. Where did teenagers get this from? All the same, she was quite glad when the two girls, putting aside whatever differences they had in the face of mother-embarrassment, took themselves into the conservatory to watch Don’s seventy-two-inch TV and a pirated DVD of a movie so new it was barely cold from the cutting room, let alone yet out on general release.
‘And you could have brought your Alex,’ Kate said to Nell, now she was on the far side of the best part of a bottle of wine. ‘He was another mistake, wasn’t he?’
‘Well no, not at the time,’ Nell told her, pulling a pale blue cashmere sweater over her head. It was almost the right size. The sleeves were a bit short, but you could call them bracelet length, pull them up a bit further and it would look all right.
