Ten Years On (10 page)

Janet feels the buttons on her music machine, turns Mozart off. Next to the CD player is a section of the newspaper. ‘Ah! You might know!’ she bursts out, peering at the crossword puzzle through her magnifying glass. ‘“Poker Face” and “Paparazzi” singer, four-four, beginning with L.’

‘Lady Gaga.’

Janet juts her chin out. ‘Hmmm?’

‘Gaga. Spelt g, a, g, a. You know, as in I’m going gaga.’ I pull a mad dotty face. ‘Lady Gaga,’ she writes carefully in the boxes. ‘What a wonderful name! I should like to meet her.’

After I have popped the cottage pie in the fridge she leads me back into the sitting room. It’s more like a museum, each table covered with ornaments. Her telephone
with enlarged numbers is placed on a Dutch marquetry table next to a framed photograph of a married couple walking away from a church. When I look more closely I see it is Janet, who is dressed in a long white dress with fur-lined sleeves, her veil swept off her face. She’s striking, with dark hair cut into a shoulder-length bob. He is significantly older.

‘Gregory,’ she says, knowing which picture I’m looking at. ‘We were married for twelve years.’

‘What was he like?’ I ask, realizing I know so little about Janet and her past.

‘A saint.’ She laughs. ‘He’d have to be to put up with me. He was in the army in the Second World War, in the Coldstream Guards. Never talked to me about it though. A brave man. We lived in Cambridge when we first married. He was a lecturer in history, loved reading more than anything in the world. He was a lovely letter-writer too. He’d be reeling in his grave with Facebook this, and Twatter that.’

‘Twitter,’ I correct her, smiling.

She looks at me. ‘Now tell me, how are you?’

Why is it that whenever someone asks me how I am in that sympathetic voice, I want to cry.

She twists a sapphire ring round her bony finger, misshapen by arthritis. She doesn’t say how much I
must miss him, or what a shock it must have been, or how time heals. She waits, aware I am trying to hold it in. ‘We don’t cry or whinge, we pull our socks up and get on with it,’ I can hear Mum saying to me as a child, when I’d asked her why she was always with Pippa in the summer holidays. Janet helps me out. ‘It’s hard, isn’t it? For the one left behind.’

Over a cup of tea I find myself telling Janet about my decision to move home. ‘I’d been denying his death in London, Janet. I thought I could go to work, put a no-entry sign in my head, not think about Olly. I thought I’d be much better off working than staying at home wallowing in self pity, but the thing is …’ I hesitate, not sure how to put it.

‘Grief catches up with you.’

I nod, remembering Glitz telling me I needed to go home. ‘I wasn’t coping, and then when I found out I was having a baby, you can imagine the shock. Oh, Janet, I have to be strong. This is a gift,’ I tell her. ‘Breaking down isn’t an option when you’re pregnant. I want to be a good mother.’

‘You’re a brave girl,’ Janet says, dabbing her own eyes. ‘You and the baby are going to be just fine.’

After a second cup of tea Janet talks about her life
with Gregory in Cambridge. She shows me photographs and letters he wrote to his sister during the Second World War. I ask her to remind me about the brooch, a silver-shaped star with a red cross enamelled in the centre, pinned to her cardigan. As a child, I remember her wearing it all the time. She tells me it is the Coldstream star. ‘I never take it off, makes me feel close to him. “
Honi soit qui mal y pense
.”’ She taps the engraving. ‘“Shame be to him who evil thinks.”’

The grandfather clock chimes twelve times, reminding me I must go. I’m meeting Joe in half an hour. ‘Are you going anywhere nice for lunch?’ Janet asks.

I mention Maison Joe and the wine tasting school. ‘Oh, I love wine!’ Janet says, leading me towards the front door, Audrey following behind. ‘I know nothing about it though. That was always your department, wasn’t it, Gregory?’

Startled, I stop and turn to her. ‘Do you talk to him, Janet?’

‘Oh yes, often,’ she says with a wave of her hand, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

‘And Gregory – does he reply? Do you hear his voice?’

‘Gosh no. I wish I did.’ She studies me. ‘But I know several people who do hear voices, and it’s nothing to
be scared of. Still, I like to chatter away. I can sense him ticking me off when I put the heating on all day; he was a right old Scrooge.’

I want to ask her more, but it’s late and I need to leave. But just as I’m about to head out the door … ‘Janet, I’m so sorry,’ I exclaim, touching her arm.

‘Whatever for?’

‘When you used to visit us for Christmas … I never realized what you were going through, losing Gregory.’

‘You were young!’

‘And I think I gave you a box of homemade fudge every year for Christmas, didn’t I?’

‘Not
every
year. Sometimes it was truffles.’

I laugh. ‘Probably disgusting too. Cooking has never been my strong point.’

‘Enough of that, Rebecca. I always enjoyed seeing you and looking at your lovely paintings. Please visit again,’ she says, ‘and make it soon.’

11

Joe leads me down to the cellar. It’s an open-plan room with long oak tables and wooden benches running down the centre, and a library of wine decorates the shelves, plus Joe tells me there’s more storage space round the back. ‘I couldn’t believe my luck when this place came up for rent,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t be able to run wine tasting courses without this incredible space.’ There’s a PowerPoint on a screen at the far end, with a graph of different regions and the wines they specialize in. ‘It’s all very new,’ Joe says. ‘I was worried that in the recession no one would sign up, but thankfully they’ve proved me wrong. Here, let me.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ I say, slipping my jacket off and handing it to him. I sit down at one of the tables and admire the lunch before me, a selection of cold meats and salads. ‘I’m not surprised people want to taste wine,’
I tell him. ‘It’s miserable, cutting back on all the best things in life.’

‘So …’ we both say at the same time.

‘Sorry, you first,’ I say.

‘I’ve written to Olly’s parents.’

‘They’ll appreciate that.’

There’s a silence. All I can hear is the noise upstairs, coming from the restaurant.

‘How are your parents?’ he asks, his tone formal.

‘They’re well, thank you.’

‘And doesn’t your sister live here? I think I’ve met her husband. The American.’

‘That’s right. Pippa. She has two boys. Twins. Oscar and Theo. They’re lovely – well, they’re little rascals really.’

I tell Joe about the flying fruit kebabs, quickly wishing I hadn’t. Joe’s eyes have already glazed over.

‘What did Olly do?’ he asks, wisely moving on.

I tell Joe he was a music teacher.

‘I remember Stanley … and how good he was at the piano.’

‘He used to play Chopin and Schubert while I was in the bath. We lived in a flat about the size of this bread-basket,’ I say, holding it up, ‘so I could hear him loud
and clear.’ I don’t tell Joe how insane it drove me at times, and how desperate I was to move somewhere with more space. ‘Sometimes he’d play while I was cooking.’

‘Cooking?’ Joe raises an eyebrow. ‘I remember one night catching you tip some baked beans over pasta.’

‘I was in a hurry. To get to the pub,’ I add. ‘I did make Sunday lunch for him once.’

‘I taught you how to separate egg whites. Our roulade was pretty good.’

‘You see,’ I say, ‘not such a hopeless cook after all.’

Joe is now thinking about something else. ‘That couple in the curry house? It was just the three of us.’

‘After that party.’ I know exactly what he’s talking about.

Joe, Olly and I had left a party early. Starving, we stopped off at our favourite curry place on the way home. Sitting at the table next to us was a middle-aged couple, not saying a word to one another, nothing but their food and a dried-up carnation in a white vase between them.

‘You must be related?’ I’d suggested to Joe at the time.

‘I talk when I have something interesting to say.’

‘Hey, you two, simmer down, simmer down,’ Olly ordered.

‘I’m not in the least bit heated up, Ol,’ I retorted, glancing at the menu, though I always ended up having the same old chicken tikka masala.

The three of us then had a drunken debate about how long this couple had been married. At what point did they run out of conversation? Were they like this at home and with friends, or was it just with each other that they couldn’t think of a word to say?

‘The day I run out of things to say is the day I die,’ Olly had announced, before leaning across to them, Joe attempting to pull him back, but once Olly had an idea in his head …

‘I know I shouldn’t be eavesdropping,’ said Olly, ‘but fascinating, really
fascinating
…’

‘We had to drag him out,’ I say, ‘before the restaurant banned us.’

‘Do you remember when you forgot to bring your heels to that black tie?’

‘I told Olly I couldn’t go, everyone would be staring at my trainers.’

‘So he carried you across the garden and into the marquee.’

‘I danced barefoot.’

Another silence.

‘You might not know this,’ Joe begins again, ‘you
were in Florence at the time, but my father came to Clifton. It was my birthday and he was determined to take us all out to the smartest restaurant in town.’

‘Wish I’d been there.’

‘No. No, you don’t. We’d have felt much more comfortable in the pub. Jamie called my father by his first name, which went down like a lead balloon. When Dad raised his glass and said how much he looked forward to my success in the surgical field, do you know what Olly said?’

I shake my head.

‘Mr Lawson, isn’t it up to Joe what he specializes in? He might not want to slice people up for a living.’

I laugh, proud of him. ‘A lot of us tiptoe round one another,’ I say, thinking about Mum and Dad hiding the photograph and my wedding dress, ‘but Olly always said exactly what was on his mind. He had no fear like that.’

Joe pushes his plate aside, pours us both another glass of water. ‘The only time I saw him scared was when you left.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He wanted you to go to Florence, he knew it was something you had to do, but the idea of you meeting some tall, dark Italian opera singer and forgetting all about him – that terrified him.’

I nod, building myself up to the question. ‘Why did you disappear, Joe? Leave Bristol without saying a word?’

‘At last,’ says Olly’s voice.

‘My mother died.’

‘Oh. I’m so sorry.’

‘She had cancer of the pancreas. They found it much too late. Even with the best medical care she had no chance.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us? Especially Olly?’

‘You were both in Florence. You’d just got back together.’

I nod. Olly had flown out – a last-minute surprise – during the Easter break. I hadn’t seen him for over six months, and during this time we’d both been seeing other people. I was going out with Luca, a chef. He was handsome, but he didn’t make me laugh, not like Olly. I don’t think it would have worked since we didn’t have enough in common, but it was fun at the time. When I met Olly at the Duomo all my old feelings for him flooded back. It was clear we both still loved one another. He stayed with me for three weeks, before returning to Bristol for the summer term and his finals. Joe had vanished.

Joe clears his throat. ‘I didn’t want to rain on your parade and—’

‘He was your best friend. He would have supported you. So would I.’

‘Really? I seem to remember you saying you hated me, that you never wanted to see me again.’

I twist one corner of the napkin, guilt creeping into my veins.

‘I helped Dad with the funeral, but after that I went off the rails. I did many things I’m not proud of. The one and only thing I knew was I didn’t want to study medicine any more. I was so angry with Dad; I blamed him for Mum’s death. Vice-President of this, chairman of that – but he couldn’t even help his wife, my mum. Part of the reason I wanted to leave Bristol was to hurt him. Throw my education back in his face with all the hopes he’d had for me, because they were his dreams, not mine …’

‘But why didn’t you talk to Olly? Why did you ignore his messages?’

‘I wasn’t a good friend.’ He looks at me directly. ‘You know that more than anyone. When he called to tell me you were back together, I wanted to be pleased, I did … but … I never stopped caring about him, or you …’ He trails off, ‘but I couldn’t find it in me to be happy. I was too messed up, too focused on myself. Olly deserved better. He didn’t need me. He had you, his
music. He had so many friends,’ he says, trying to justify it.

‘He missed you. I can’t believe we didn’t know your mother had died, that you went through it alone.’

‘I took off, went to Australia to stay with my uncle,’ Joe continues, as if he doesn’t want to think about the hurt he caused by cutting Olly out of his life. ‘I had to leave. I can’t explain it, I’m not doing a good job, but all I knew was I needed to clear my head and make a new start. I ended up staying with Uncle Tom for three years, working in his vineyard and learning about the wine business.’

‘How’s Tubster?’ Joe asks towards the end of our lunch, both of us in need of some lighter conversation. ‘Tubster’ was Olly’s nickname for Jamie.

‘He’s dating someone called Amanda. She’s awful,’ I confess. ‘Calls him Jamie dearest, and orders him about, almost treats him like her child.’

‘I once had a girlfriend called Amanda, but it was over the moment she told me it was my bathtime.’

I smile, more at Joe’s deadpan delivery.

‘And Sylvie?’

‘Works in marketing. Going out with her boss.’ I fold my napkin in half, then halve it again.

‘You used to do that with crisp packets too.’

I look up, blushing. ‘And you? Are you married, Joe?’ As I ask him, I recall Annie saying he was the most eligible bachelor in town.

‘I have a girlfriend. Peta.’ His eyes warm up. ‘She’s an actress.’

‘How did you meet?’

‘Here. She’s lovely. We haven’t known one another for long but I like her, a lot.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Rebecca, if you don’t want to talk about it, I’d understand. But how did it happen? The accident?’