Ten Years On (21 page)

Unsure, I hit the pillow.

He shrugs. ‘Not bad.’

I hit it harder.

‘Better.’

I thump it now.
Punch!

I picture Olly’s face the morning he died. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ he’d said. I miss not hearing his voice.
Talk to me, Olly. Please come back
.

I punch the pillow repeatedly, until I have no strength left.

Later that night, after I’ve unpacked and had a bath, I find Glitz in the kitchen on the basement floor, listening to opera music as he throws together a pasta dish with garlic and herbs.

‘I’m sorry to dump this on you. You’re my boss and here I am telling you all my dramas.’

‘You’re my friend,’ he puts me straight. ‘I hope you’re hungry. You must have burned a lot of calories tonight.’

‘Who needs the gym, eh?’

Glitz laughs as he drains the pasta.

A black cat jumps on to my lap. Glitz tells me he’s called Bond.

‘Bond, James Bond.’ I stroke him.

As we talk about the business and Marty’s family, I
find it therapeutic listening to the sound of Bond’s contented purring.

‘Glitz, it won’t always feel like this, will it?’ I ask him over supper.

‘No. You’ll get better at it.’

‘Better at it?’

He puts his fork down. ‘You never get over it; you get better at dealing with it.’

‘Have you lost someone?’

He pushes his plate aside now. ‘Rose. My daughter.’

‘I’m so sorry. All this time, I had no idea.’

He refills his glass with white wine. ‘How were you to know? I blamed myself for years,’ he confides. ‘She was in a deeply unhappy marriage. She called late one night, asked if I could go over. I’d had one too many gins, was in no fit state to get in the car, so I told her I’d be with her first thing in the morning.’ He pauses. ‘“Everything’s all right,” I said to Diana, my wife back then. Rose took an overdose. I’ll never know if she meant to or not.’

Glitz takes off his black-rimmed glasses and rubs his eyes. ‘Diana left me, and I lost my job in the City, though it is true to say I never liked the job anyway. All I wanted was to be miserable and blame myself.’

‘But it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t.’ I look at him then, thinking how we never know people, not truly, until we show them our own vulnerability.

‘I should have heard the distress in her voice and jumped into a cab.’

‘Oh, Glitz. How did you get through it?’

‘Marty. She was an old friend back then. She broke down the door of my apartment – I was living in squalor, Rebecca – and she told me she was taking me away, whether I liked it or not. Brave girl … or very stupid,’ he adds with a wry smile.

I fold my napkin in half, and then in half again. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

But he doesn’t hear me. He’s back with Rose. ‘In my sleep I still see her,’ he says, ‘I’m pushing her on the swing and she’s saying, “Daddy! Higher!” She used to wear her flowery knickers on her head, pretend they were scarves like her mother’s.’ We laugh at that. ‘She loved jewels too, would dress up in Diana’s pearls and heels and take the dog out for walks. She was my ray of sunshine. In many ways you remind me of her.’

Late that evening I call home. Dad picks up after the first ring. ‘I’m fine,’ I reassure him. ‘Is that Becca?’ I
hear Mum calling in the background. She comes on to the line. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Me too,’ I reply tearfully.

‘I’ve been thinking about what you said.’

‘I was angry.’

‘I can see I was taken up with Pippa. Growing up, I was passionate about sport, but my parents couldn’t afford lessons …’

‘Mum, it’s OK.’

‘No, it’s not. I wanted Pippa to have the chances I’d never had, but I should have encouraged you more too, especially with your art. I should have given you more time. I’m so sorry. Where are you?’

I tell Mum I’m with Glitz. I’m safe. I won’t do anything stupid to harm the baby.

‘What a day,’ I whisper to Olly, before telling him about Mum and Pippa. ‘You always said there was too much unsaid between us all. Well, it’s all out there now, like on
The Jerry Springer Show
.’

I still don’t hear his voice. If I return to Winchester, I will find Jim and Noodle and ask why Olly has stopped talking to me.

30

‘Why don’t you stay here while I’m in America?’ Glitz proposes over a scrambled-egg breakfast. ‘You can water the plants and look after Bond. Fend off any burglars. I’ve spoken to Marty – she’s more than happy. Invite a friend for the week. Don’t be alone right now. Have some fun.’

‘OH MY GOD!’ Kitty jumps up and down from room to room exclaiming that her entire flat could fit into Glitz’s dining room. The sitting room has a grand piano and a bar! She gazes at a brightly coloured still life painted by someone called Alberto Morrocco. The kitchen houses a fridge that competes in size with Todd and Pippa’s, but whereas theirs was stocked with ominous fruit kebabs, inside Glitz and Marty’s fridge is food you’d eat
in heaven; smoked salmon, crème brûlée, passion-fruit cheesecake and Belgian chocolate.

Kitty and I sing, ‘Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?’ as we make our way upstairs. We go into Glitz and Marty’s bedroom. It’s large, painted soft yellow with white wooden shutters. Kitty opens the wardrobe, peeps inside. ‘Stop it!’ I drag her away. But I can’t help asking: ‘Did you see anything interesting?’

‘Fuck me, there’s a games room!’ she cries out, picking up a ping-pong bat.

I clap my hands. ‘It’s all ours, for a week.’

That evening, after Kitty and I have helped ourselves to a drink from the bar (I have a small glass of champagne, before reluctantly moving on to something soft), we decide how to make the most of the next seven days. When I’d called Kitty and told her about Pippa and Mum, she volunteered to take time off. ‘I know I don’t have to,’ she said. The only commitment I had had to cancel was my work. I called Maison Joe. Joe was out, so I left a message for him with Edoardo, explaining something had come up and I needed time away. I also called Janet, to explain why I wouldn’t be at the next wine-tasting session, though reassuring her I’d be back soon.

My best friend is in her element organizing. ‘I don’t want to schedule our week to death, but I think tomorrow we should go to the Tate Modern and then we’ve
got
to have afternoon tea somewhere and oh, I know! I was thinking we should blow our budget and have a facial or something.’ Kitty reaches for her glass of champagne. ‘This is much more fun than any holiday. A week of unadulterated pleasure without the airport or hiring a car! We can be tourists in our own city.’

‘And no mention of home, of Pippa, Mum …’

‘Agreed. Amen to that.’

Over the next week Kitty and I tick off all the major galleries until we feel so drunk on art that we have to turn our attention to more important matters: pampering and food. We go to a tea shop in Bloomsbury where we indulge in pink and yellow cupcakes and scones with clotted cream. We have a pedicure in a fancy Notting Hill salon. I opt for my toenails to be painted ruby red; Kitty goes for silver.

To work off the cupcakes and clotted cream, we go for a long walk in Richmond Park and get caught in the rain. We brave Westfield (it’s my first time) and shop, mainly for Kitty since I am six and a half months pregnant now, but I can’t resist a pair of brown leather
boots that are on sale. We browse Borough Market on Saturday and get hotdogs for lunch with lashings of fried onion. One evening we stay in and eat crème brûlée in bed, watching episode after episode of
Mad Men
. What I realize I enjoy most, however, is walking the streets among people I don’t know and not having to hide from Mum’s friends in the supermarket. ‘I like being anonymous in London,’ Joe had said. I realize I have missed the noise and buzz of London and the randomness of people. A man on the tube sits opposite Kitty and me and sings to us, reggae style, ‘Hey, beautiful
laydee
, long time no see. Won’t you come and spend the night with me?’ He bursts into happy laughter and wishes us ‘a lovely day’, as we step off the train.

‘He was singing that to me,’ Kitty says, as we follow the exit signs.

‘No, I think you’ll find he was looking at me,’ I beg to differ.

A violinist plays in a Covent Garden wine bar as we sit surrounded by couples sipping cocktails. Sylvie joins us one evening to go to the cinema; we opt for the latest feel-good romantic comedy. ‘That’s life in a sugar-coating,’ Olly always used to complain. Yet sometimes, it’s exactly what you need.

*

On our last night, Sylvie and Jamie meet us in an Italian restaurant just round the corner from Glitz’s place. In many ways it reminds me of Maison Joe, with its stripped wooden floors, modern paintings, wine served in carafes and jazz music playing in the background. It’s also busy, waiters balancing plates of food as they hurry from one table to another.

‘So what’s he like now?’ Sylvie asks, referring to Joe. When I’d left for Florence, Sylvie moved into another house for her third year. She’d kept in touch with Olly and Jamie, but not Joe.

‘He’s bigger, isn’t he?’ Kitty says. ‘Fuller-faced.’

‘What? Fat?’ Sylvie sounds appalled.

‘No. He’s just filled out a bit,’ I say.

‘Is he as fat as Jamie?’

‘Fuck off,’ Jamie says with a generous smile.

‘He’s still good-looking,’ Kitty remarks. ‘I’m going to have the fried squid and then the spaghetti carbonara …’

‘Because you haven’t eaten quite enough this week,’ I suggest.

‘Who’s he dating now?’ Sylvie dips some crusty bread into olive oil.

‘Peta. The actress I told you about.’

‘Still? Wow, that must be a world record.’

‘He’s grown up, Sylvie!’ I explain that he’d had a long-term relationship with an Australian.

‘Peta’s beautiful, but a bit
actressy
,’ Kitty says. ‘Only likes to talk about herself.’

‘That’s because you didn’t stop asking her questions,’ I defend Peta. ‘But I know what you mean.’

‘Joe was hot, in a Heathcliff kind of way,’ Sylvie continues. ‘Funny thing is, he was the one guy I couldn’t get.’

‘Hilarious,’ mutters Jamie.

‘Even if I’d thrown myself on to the bed, naked, he wouldn’t have been up for it.’

‘Literally?’ Jamie raises an eyebrow.

‘I couldn’t work him out,’ Sylvie sighs, circling the rim of her wine glass with her finger. ‘I guess that’s why he was so attractive. Still, I didn’t expect him to just quit Bristol without telling anyone, especially Olly. That was weird, even for Joe.’

I remind them that his mother had died. He’d travelled to Australia to see his uncle. ‘He was in a mess.’

‘I know, but why didn’t he tell Olly?’ she says, still refusing to accept this as explanation enough.

‘Grief does strange things to you,’ I say.

‘He never wanted to be a doctor.’ Jamie comes to his
defence too. ‘There was a nice side to him, you know. When you left, Becca, for Florence, Joe supported Olly more than anyone else. Olly played the field a bit, you know that,’ Jamie continues, ‘but it was obvious nothing was going to last because he was so in love with you. He was terrified that you were falling for that chef guy. The relief I felt when Joe put him out of his misery and booked Olly on to that flight.’

‘Joe did that?’

‘Yep. He bought Olly the ticket, even drove him to the airport. “Stop moping and do something about it,” he said. I thought you knew this.’

I shake my head. I’d had no idea. A waiter bustles over, asks if we’re ready to order.

Towards the end of the meal the mood sobers. ‘What are you going to do next?’ Jamie asks me, a question we have all been putting off.

‘Go home.’ I explain that I can’t be anywhere else. It’s where I’m having the baby. I’m registered at the maternity unit in Winchester. I can’t find a new place, move in and settle down before the baby’s born. There’s no way. ‘I need my mum,’ I admit.

They all mutter in agreement.

‘I’ll move back after Christmas.’

‘I wish I was loaded,’ Jamie says. ‘Then I could set you up in a nice home with a nanny.’

‘Oh, Jamie,’ I say, my heart melting. ‘A full-time cook would be great too.’

‘And a chauffeur?’ he suggests.

I think of devoted Michel. ‘Perfect. One that looks like George Clooney.’

Sylvie asks for the bill. ‘Did you ever send Olly’s script to an agent?’

I tell her I haven’t.

‘You’ve got nothing to lose,’ Jamie says.

Except one final rejection. Maybe Olly was right. I had lost faith in him.

‘What about Pippa?’ Kitty brings up her name finally. During the past week we stuck to our promise, but often Pippa crept into my mind. So did Oscar and Theo, but in a good way. I’m surprised by how much I miss home: talking to Dad in his hut, cooking supper with Mum in the evenings, even when she says, ‘Oh, you do it like that, do you?’ in that way she has.

I enjoy my walks with Janet, Woody and Audrey. I’m also surprised by how much I’ve missed Maison Joe, and the man who owns it.

‘Are you nervous about facing her?’ Sylvie asks.

I nod, but I’m still thinking about Joe.

‘I would be too,’ Sylvie continues. ‘She was out of line. That girl needs a giant kick up the arse.’

‘Becca?’ Kitty nudges me. ‘Something else is worrying you. Is it your mum?’

‘It’s Joe.’ I’m surprised not to have heard a word from him.

‘Maybe he’s been busy at work,’ Kitty suggests. ‘Or it could be something to do with his dad.’

‘You’re right. It could be anything.’

‘Face it, us guys are no good at calling up for a chat,’ Jamie concludes, as we leave the restaurant.

31

Pippa doesn’t hear her doorbell ring, but the door’s unlocked so I let myself in. I find her in the sitting room, the carpet littered with toys, felt-tip pens and a train set. ‘I told you not to play in here.’ She looks on the verge of tears. ‘Look at the mess you’ve made!’

‘Auntie Becca!’ Theo charges towards me.

‘OUT!’ she orders the boys, pushing them away. ‘Go and sit in the kitchen and don’t you dare move until I tell you.’

I touch her shoulder. ‘Let me help,’ I say, slowly bending down to pick toys off the floor.