Coming Home (11 page)

Luca exhaled slowly; took a sip of wine. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘All good.’ He stared out of the window, shaking his head. ‘Your poor mum. How is she?’

‘She’s OK. She’s coping well.’ My eyes slid away from Luca’s and I twisted the wine bottle around to face me, making a show of reading the label.

‘Anyway.’ I topped up Luca’s glass. ‘Tell me. What have
you been doing for the past ten years? Did you ever set up that art gallery you used to dream about?’

‘Well, I’m a freelance photographer, by way of a law degree, but my dream is still to set up a gallery with a coffee shop, and maybe a bookshop, too. Woodside needs some beauty. It needs a photography gallery, no?’ His eyes were brimful of passion.

‘And I’ve every faith you’re the man to bring beauty to Woodside.’ I smiled back at him. ‘But, seriously, good on you.’

‘Anyway,’ said Luca, changing the subject, ‘what have you been doing since you jilted me at the altar?’

I snorted, wine tickling my nose. ‘That’s not fair! It was hardly the altar!’

‘Altar. Engagement. Same thing. Pff.’ Luca was laughing at me.

‘Look, about that,’ I said. Luca raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘Sorry for what? For turning me down?’

‘Well, that … and the way I did it.’

‘I should bloody hope so.’ Again, he was laughing and I squirmed in my seat, not entirely sure if he was teasing or serious. Luca reached for my hand, put his over it.

‘Look, Evie, just so you know …’ He paused. ‘I’m really glad you turned me down.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. Can you imagine being married at nineteen?’ He shuddered. ‘You did me a favour.’

‘I still feel so guilty.’

‘Well, stop that right now.’ He squeezed my hand. I squeezed back, grateful. ‘Don’t worry. I took the ring back. Got a refund. Argos is great about returns.’ He said it deadpan and a laugh exploded out of me. I pulled my hand away, the tension of the moment dissipated.

‘But, seriously, do you ever wonder how it would have turned out? Do you think we’d still be together now?’

‘Who knows. I’d like to hope so. But we were very young and we had university still to get through. The odds were stacked against us. I don’t know what I was thinking proposing like that. Honestly, Evie? I suspect you saved us both a lot of heartache.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry on that account: seems like I managed to get myself plenty of heartache without any help from you whatsoever.’

‘Really? I half expected you to be married by now.’

‘I was, almost. Well, I got as close to being married as you can get when you’re engaged to a pathological liar who already has a fiancée.’ Now I had someone to talk to about James, I suddenly didn’t want to waste my energy dragging through it all. Sitting with Luca, it no longer seemed important. ‘A story for another day,’ I said.

Luca read me well. ‘So,’ he said after a moment, ‘what took you to Dubai? Not the pathological liar, I hope?’

I laughed. ‘No. I had the joy of meeting him there. Oh, you know how it was with me. Like I always had ants in my pants?’

‘Yep. You always had your nose in a travel brochure. I remember how you used to stare at those pictures of blue sky
and beaches and yearn to be anywhere but the UK. I wished we’d had the money to travel to some of those places.’

‘Ha. I loved my brochures, didn’t I? Well, after I finished uni, I wasn’t ready to do the nine-to-five thing in London. I just couldn’t do it. My best friend from uni got a job in Dubai and I followed her over.’ I hesitated, then plunged on. ‘I did it for Mum as much as for me. Dad was away much of the time and she was too dependent on me. I wanted to force her to stand on her own two feet.’ I looked at Luca and saw that he got it. ‘I wanted to make a clean break, as well. There were too many memories here. Too much sadness in Mum and Dad’s house … you know what I mean?’ He nodded. ‘Anyway.’ I shrugged. ‘I had nothing to lose, no ties. You know how it is.’

‘Now or never. Before the kids, the car and the mortgage.’

I returned Luca’s smile. ‘Exactly.’

‘And now?’ he asked. ‘Still got ants in your pants, or ready to come back?’

‘Well, goodness,’ I said, surprised by the way the question got me. A couple of weeks ago I wouldn’t have even considered moving back to the UK but now, sitting in Pizza Express with Luca, I started to wonder. ‘Never say never.’

W
hile I wasn’t surprised to see that Mum’s house-to-be was located in what I called her ‘magic triangle’—an area of about one square mile centred on the existing house, outside of which she didn’t think it was possible to breathe oxygen—what I was surprised to see was Richard hanging around on the pavement outside it.

‘What’s he doing here?’ I hissed.

‘Oh! I invited him! He loves property; very interested in property. Thought he might like the chance to look around.’

I rolled my eyes at the sky. ‘Marvellous.’

‘Hello!’ said Richard as we approached. He gave Mum a little air-kiss and nodded to me. ‘Exciting times, eh? See you’ve gone for a new-build, too. Far easier to maintain than those draughty old Victorian heaps.’

‘Oh, tell me about it!’ laughed Mum. ‘No more cleaning those leaded windows! I can’t wait.’

‘It’s not yours yet,’ I muttered, but Mum and Richard were already halfway up the garden path. Despite Mum’s protestations that there was nothing between the two of them, it certainly didn’t look like that. I watched for a minute
as they walked together to the front door, every inch the married couple.

Tucked away from the main street, the house was a two-bedroom bungalow in a conservation area and it was detached, which I knew would have scored points with Mum; she hated being able to hear anything through the shared wall of our house. I wondered how Dad had stomached the idea of living in a new-build. As a historian, he’d always been quite scathing about ‘shoebox’ houses. Still, the outside of the house was covered in climbing ivy and other plants and the front garden was lush with foliage. It looked friendly.

Sheltering from the wind in a small porch, grey clouds scudding across the sky, we knocked on the door, and were invited in by the owner, a middle-aged man wearing the England football strip.

‘Mrs Stevens!’ he said. ‘Come to have another look at your new home? Did that sorry excuse for an estate agent tell you I accepted your offer?’

‘Oh,’ Mum said, her mouth pursed. ‘No, he didn’t. I’ll give him a call this afternoon.’ She exchanged a glance with Richard.

‘Right you are, love,’ said the man. ‘It’s chain-free, so I’m ready to move just as soon as. Now, I’m in the middle of something. Do you mind taking a look around by yourselves?’ We shook our heads and he disappeared back into the house.

I looked around. We were standing in a tidy little entrance hall with pillar-box red walls and carpeted in a green so
bright I jokingly slid my sunglasses back over my eyes once the owner had disappeared

‘I’m trying to look past the décor,’ I whispered, pretending to peer through my sunglasses.

‘What’s wrong with the décor?’ she asked. ‘I quite like it.’

The house was U-shaped, built as if its arms were hugging a little garden that could be seen from almost every room. There was a sense of light and space, which I liked at once. Richard and I followed Mum around and she presented each room to us with a flourish, clearly enjoying seeing the property again now she knew her offer had been accepted. I could see from the way her eyes narrowed that she was trying to picture her things in each room. The study was very small. I couldn’t imagine how Dad would have managed to work in it.

‘I’ll need to get some new furniture,’ said Mum. ‘Most of mine is too big. But wait till you see the bedroom. The bedroom’s gorgeous.’

She led us through the long, narrow living room nodding apologies to the owner, who was watching television, opened a set of French doors and stepped outside onto a patio that faced the small, neat garden.

‘It’s not very big,’ said Mum. Already I could see her saying the same thing to her first guests as she showed them outside.

‘But isn’t that the point?’ I asked. ‘Wasn’t the old one too big for you to manage? Especially now you’re on your own.’

‘Not that your father—God rest his soul—was ever that
much of a help in the garden,’ she said. ‘He was always bloody away.’

The master bedroom was a beautiful space. With French doors to the garden as well as a glass wall through to an
en suite
with windows facing the end of the plot, it was bright and airy. Richard nodded to himself. ‘Very nice,’ he said.

‘Ta-da!’ said Mum, doing a twirl as if she owned the house already. ‘I love this room. There’s room to swing a cat—and I won’t need to do a thing to it.’

I frowned. ‘Did Dad see it?’

‘Yep.’

What, I wondered, had he made of the pink carpet, flowery wallpaper and chipboard fitted wardrobe?

‘So. He accepted the offer despite what the estate agent said,’ said Mum, as we walked home after we’d said goodbye to Richard. The wind whipped our hair around our faces. Mum did a silent cheer, clearly pleased with herself. ‘What did you think? Do you like it? Can you see yourself visiting your old ma there?’

‘I liked it,’ I said. ‘Yeah. Nice choice. But you really will have to get rid of a lot of furniture before you move.’

‘I know. I’ll have to get a smaller dining table and maybe just the one sofa instead of the two three-seaters. But you’re getting through the stuff in the attic, aren’t you? I don’t want to be taking all that stuff with me.’

I nodded.

‘I don’t think that house even has an attic. Nowhere to
keep my secrets!’ Her laugh took flight on the wind. We walked in silence for a bit. Then: ‘Have you found …’ she hesitated a fraction ‘… your brother’s things yet?’

Nothing of Graham’s had been thrown out. Absolutely everything he’d owned had been bundled in black plastic bags and shoved into cardboard boxes, presumably by Dad.

I hadn’t known what to do with them. I hadn’t wanted to bring up the subject of Graham’s things so they were in that corner pile, waiting for either inspiration or instruction.

Before I could reply, Mum continued, ‘I think we should give them to charity. I bet some of his toys and books are in really nice condition. Would you mind if we did that? Just take anything you want for yourself first, and we’ll donate the rest.’

‘Sure,’ I said. Wow, I thought. Maybe we’re getting there.

I cooked
saag aloo
, butter chicken and
dhal
for dinner that night. I made an effort, serving the dishes with rice and
naan
, and throwing a few poppadums under the grill as an accompaniment. I’d learned the recipes from an Indian friend in Dubai and, although very simple, they never failed to impress. The table between Mum and me was a sea of exotic chutneys I’d sourced from the grocery up the road.

‘Nice,’ said Mum, nodding, after her first spoonful. ‘Very nice, Evie. Thank you.’

I smiled and we chinked our wine glasses. ‘Cheers.’

‘How are you getting on with Dad’s papers?’ she asked.

‘Mmm-nn,’ I said, off guard.

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Uh, no. No, not at all.’ I sipped my wine, tried to sound nonchalant: ‘Did Dad have any more files, by the way? Anything else you need me to go through?’

Mum laughed. ‘Not as far as I know. Is something missing? Or have you found something exciting? Had he been siphoning money into a Swiss bank account?’ She gave a little shiver. ‘Imagine the jewels I could buy!’

I laughed with Mum to take the heat out of the moment. Something about the conversation was off-kilter and I didn’t think it was just from my side. Maybe Mum was more tipsy than I’d thought.

She stood up and started to clear the dishes. ‘Anyway, unfortunately—or fortunately—your father was very particular. All of the bank papers are in that file. He didn’t have anything else kept anywhere else. I’m absolutely sure of that.’

I took another sip of wine, pressing the cold glass against my lips and inhaling the scent of the wine.

‘By the way,’ Mum said, ‘what are you planning to do with all those dresses from the attic? The boxes are cluttering up the hall.’

‘I need you to go through them before I throw any out. Do you feel like doing it now?’

‘A
re you able to talk about what happened? That night with your mother? ‘Miss Dawson’s voice was gentle. My knitting needles and a fresh ball of wool lay on my lap. My scarf and the following blanket had been such a success I was excited to start work on my first sweater
.

‘Please can you help me cast on?’

Miss Dawson fiddled with my needles, did the first couple of stitches for me
.

‘There you go.’ She sat back and waited. I knitted a full row while I thought about where to start
.

‘She was in the bath,’ I said eventually
.

Miss Dawson nodded. Unlike most adults, she didn’t interrupt when I was talking. I looked at my knitting and remembered that night. I’d been so proud when Dad’s TV show had been shortlisted for an award. He and Mum were going to London for the awards ceremony and I told everyone that they were going to ‘the British Oscars’. Even the bullies fell quiet. For once, I wasn’t ‘poor little Evie’ whose brother had died
.

The day before the event, Mum had called me to her bedroom and asked me to help her choose what she was
going to wear. She’d swished a long black dress from a smart dust cover. ‘I bought it specially,’ she said, the ghost of a smile dusting her lips. ‘I just knew your father would be shortlisted.’

She’d put on the dress and I’d helped her choose a
faux
fur stole and strappy silver heels to go with it. She looked like a movie star. ‘I’m not done yet,’ she said, fiddling with her hair as she folded it into a French pleat. Then she’d powdered her face, added some mascara, rouge and her new red lipstick. ‘There. Do I pass?’ she asked and I ran to her and hugged her hips, careful not to ruck up the dress
.

‘You look like a princess,’ I said
.