I Hope You Dance (28 page)

“There is nothing going on between me and David, like I said. We were best friends for a long time. Just before he left, David indicated that he had, um, feelings for me. But he knows I've made you a promise not to get romantically involved with anyone, and he respects that.”

She snorted. “
Yours when you want me. Thinking about you.
How is that respecting your promise? Tell me exactly what he said.”

“He said he'll wait until you're ready.”

“So, what, he assumes you like him back?”

“I suppose he might.” I shifted position on the armchair.

“Why would he think that? What did you say to make him think that?”

“Nothing!”

“So why would he think that then?” She continued to glare at me, arms crossed.

“I don't know, Maggie. It was a brief conversation. I was very uncomfortable,” I said.

“So?”

“So what?”

“Do you like him back?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“You know I like David, Maggie. He's my oldest friend.”

“You know what I mean! Do you have feelings for him?”

What could I say? I had a thousand, million, squillion feelings for David Carrington. None of them welcome, or wanted.

“How I feel about David is irrelevant. I made you a promise and will keep it. I'm not going to enter into any sort of relationship with a man until you're ready.”

She just stared at me, eyes narrowed, until I answered her question.

“Yes.” I looked down, hugged a cushion to my knees.

“Are you in love with him?”

“Maybe. Possibly. I don't know. But it makes no difference. I will always, always love you more.”

A concrete statue sat in my daughter's place. “You can't be friends with him then. Not if you feel like that about each other. Can you?”

The statue's face cracked, and I saw the hurt and the loss and the confusion inside. I got up and moved across to sit beside her on the sofa, wrapping my arms around her.

“Oh Maggie, I'm so glad you're safe. Promise you'll talk to me next time before running away with a boy to an exotic dancer's drug den.”

“She offered me a job.”

“What?”

Maggie burst out in a shaky laugh. “Relax, Mum. I said no. And before you ask, we didn't have sex.”

“Good to hear.”

“No way I'm losing my virginity on a dodgy stained mattress
with a load of stoners in the next room.” She leaned her head onto my shoulder and I rested mine on hers.

“Like I said, good to hear. Now go and get changed. You've got an appointment with Mr Hay.”

“Good to hear.”

“And by the way, you're grounded. Indefinitely.”

The meeting included much grovelling, many apologies and warnings, and a liberal sprinkling of the fact that it was a tricky time of year for Maggie and me, being only four days before the anniversary of Fraser's car crash. Although little had been said, the date still hovered in our minds. I had been dreaming about the night a policeman knocked on my door, weird twists of my imagination involving Fraser's mother, bailiffs and the weighty feeling of blackness that shrouded our family for a season. We both found ourselves mournful, more fragile than usual. On the day itself, we caught the train to Liverpool.

We didn't visit Fraser's grave – that lay in Scotland, alongside his father's. Instead, we went to the places that reminded us of him the most, where our family had been happiest, and we could celebrate having known him, rather than grieve his loss. We didn't go anywhere near our old house – that would have been pointlessly painful – but we walked in Croxteth park, took the bus into town and strolled along the regenerated docks, splashed out more money than was sensible at Fraser's favourite restaurant, and eventually ended up being blown about Wallasey beach.

Maggie flung back the hood of her parka, letting the salt spray and biting wind whip her hair about and turn her cheeks pink. “Liverpool!” she squealed. “I love you! I miss you and your freezing coldness and your awesome accent and big, tall buildings and old drunk Irish guys and abundance of tracksuits! I yearn for
massive bridges and the smell of the sea and the superlambanana and a way less creepy number of trees! Yay Beatles! You are far better than Robin Hood. And you actually existed. You'll never walk alone!”

I hoped the few other people on the beach wouldn't be offended by a fourteen-year-old's memory of Liverpool and muttered an apology to the ghost of Robin Hood for my daughter's lack of faith. I liked Liverpool, a lot, but it had never been home.

We allowed the gale to buffet us down the sand parallel to the steel-coloured waves. Every few strides one of us bent down and picked up a stone, hurling it into the water while speaking out a memory of Fraser.

“He was the world's best tickler,” Maggie grinned.

“He cooked fantastic omelettes.”

“He always came to tuck me in at night, even when it was really late and he thought I was asleep.”

“He worked really hard to give us lovely things.”

“I never saw anyone so bad at dancing the robot.”

“True. But slow dancing?
That
he could do.”

“I loved your impressions of all my different teachers, Dad!”

“You were the sexiest boy on the maths course!”

“Eew! Keep it clean. You pretty much hardly ever embarrassed me in front of my friends!”

“You put up with my crazy mother!”

“You were an amazing dad.” Maggie spoke this so softly the wind snatched the words away. She stopped walking, and folded herself into me. “I miss you, my daddy. I love you and I wish you were here every day. I miss you.”

Our tears mingled with the Irish Sea spray as we gazed out towards the horizon, and wondered and remembered and held each other tight. I missed him too, the man who had shared my life and my bed and the young woman beside me. Life was safe with Fraser, and oh so dangerously wide open without him.

It was a good day. I watched Maggie on the train journey home
reading the latest John Green book and marvelled at the difference between this young woman and the angry, mixed-up girl hiding behind liquid eyeliner and blue hair I had dragged kicking and screaming from the same city only seven months earlier.

She turned the page and, without glancing up, said, “Stop staring at me, please.”

“I'm just thinking how much I love you.”

She rolled her eyes, still reading, if that's possible.

“Are you happy, Maggie?”

“It's the anniversary of Dad's untimely death. I've spent half the afternoon crying, or trying not to cry. I'm grounded, on probation at school and my boyfriend is forbidden from seeing me unsupervised after taking me to a crack-house. My mum is being stalked by a madman, my grandparents are on the brink of marital breakdown and my best friend is a bitter, lonely old woman who treats me like a servant. Oh, and I have terrible hair.” She looked up at me, a smile in her eyes. “Yes, I'm pretty happy.”

“Do you still want to move back to Liverpool?”

“Is that ever going to happen?”

“Probably not.”

“Then I'll live with it.”

“I'm unbelievably proud of you – you know that?”

“Yes.” She resumed reading for a few more minutes. “Can I go to Sam's party on Friday?”

“Still grounded.”

“No longer happy.”

“You can live with it.”

 

I got a phone call from Rupa's mother-in-law, who lived in Leicester. Could I do three more of the Noah's ark pictures for her other grandchildren? Only her eldest grandson, Daniel, loved the Bible story about Daniel in the lions' den. Could I draw lions? And her other granddaughter loved butterflies, so could I do a picture with some butterflies in it? She would pay me, of course.

I ummed and ahhed, doubtful that my amateur artwork was actually worth paying for.

Mistaking my modesty for haggling, she upped the price. One hundred pounds for three pictures.

I shrugged my shoulders, hung up the phone and dug out my pencils. I could almost hear God chuckle as I buried myself in the Bible for the second time that month.

 

That Friday was girls' night. Rupa's turn. We brought lasagne and freshly baked Italian bread from the deli, leafy salad and carrot cake with extra-thick lime and mascarpone icing. Ana Luisa and I arrived an hour early, planning to spend it vacuuming, scrubbing, sorting and ironing while Rupa soaked in the bath.

Instead of being greeted by Rupa's pretty smile at the door, we found ourselves face to face with Vanessa Jacobs, of all people. She looked us up and down, a faint smirk lurking at the corners of her squishy lips.

“Yes?”

“We're here to see Rupa. She's expecting us.”

“She's resting.”

Vanessa crossed her arms defensively. A duster dangled from one hand. Ana Luisa thrust the cake tin she carried in through the doorway until it nearly rammed into Vanessa's rigid chest.

“Not a problem. We won't disturb her. We came to do her ironing.”

“Done.”

“Vacuuming, then.”

“I've done it.”

“Washing-up? Tidying? Changed her bed? Hah! What about her kitchen cupboards?”

Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She stepped back to let us in. “And don't worry, I won't be hanging around for your little party. I've got better things to do on a Friday night than giggle and gossip like twelve-year-olds at a sleepover.”

“Something better than laughing with your friends? I have to know what that could be,” Ana Luisa asked oh so sweetly. Vanessa dropped the duster on the hall table and yanked on her jacket.

“Let's put it this way. I'll be having a sleepover of my own. And there aren't any girls invited.”

She opened the front door and called over her shoulder as she left, “Say bye to Rups for me. Tell her I'll bring that shopping over in the morning.”

We stood and watched Vanessa's sports car screech away.

“Well.”

“My thoughts exactly. I suppose we should clean some cupboards.”

The others arrived an hour later, laden down with groceries, magazines and teeny-tiny baby clothes.

We settled in Rupa's small living room, packed even tighter now it was filled with bunches of flowers and about a thousand cards.

“How are you doing, Mum?” Emily asked Rupa, curled up on the sofa in her pyjamas.

“I'm fine, thanks.”

“I'll ask again. How are you, Rupa?”

She sighed, allowing her chin to tremble. “Wrung out. Like an empty sack. When Hope got that infection last week – I honestly didn't know how I would bear it. But I did. And she's okay, and I know I have to choose between feeling angry this happened, my whole life becoming hospitals and tubes and waiting and worrying, and feeling so very grateful she's made it this far, and is doing well, and everyone's been so wonderful… it's like the worst, horrible, scariest times only give more opportunities for people to show love and kindness. Honestly, every time I think I can't do another day, like when I hear mums with their big, fat, healthy babies complaining about them crying all night, or having sore boobs from breastfeeding, when I feel like that, I look at Hope's blanket and I think about all those people who are standing with us. And I, I don't know, I feel strong. I feel carried. I feel blessed.”

Ana Luisa asked the question we were both thinking: “So, speaking of people being kind – Vanessa Jacobs?”

Rupa smiled, and wagged her finger at Ana. “Vanessa has been amazing. I will not hear a bad word said about her in this house. I've cried on her shoulder so many times in the past few weeks she could have charged me rent.”

The girls bristled. What was wrong with their nice, soft, friendly, less fashionable shoulders?

Ellie shook her head in wonderment. “I don't understand. Since when did you and her become best buddies?” She gasped. “Is that who drove you to the doctor's last week when you turned down my offer of a lift? Did Vanessa Jacobs take you?”

Rupa sighed. “I can't believe you're jealous.”

“We're not jealous!”

We were, a teensy bit. Vanessa had long, silken ringlets, a blemish-free complexion, a killer body and bad girl attitude. And now she was muscling in on being kind and generous too?

“Vanessa gets it. And it's, I don't know,
soothing,
to be with a person you don't have to explain it to; they just understand what to do and what not to say and all that.”

“Oh.” Ellie was taking this hard.

“Can you remember when Vanessa moved away for a couple of years? About a month before I met Harry? Well, she left Southwell to get married. They had a baby, twelve weeks prem. He didn't make it; her marriage fell apart a few months later. It's not a secret, but it isn't common knowledge either. She might come across as abrasive and mean, but really underneath Vanessa's just wounded. She lashes out because she's terrified that someone'll see beneath her stylish exterior and find a worthless reject inside. I don't think she has any real friends.”

Emily raised her eyebrows. “Sounds like she needs to come to the clinic for a few sessions. I knew about her marriage, but not the baby.”

“Actually” – Rupa wriggled on her seat and mustered up a
surprisingly determined look on her face for someone so sweet-natured – “I wanted to ask her along to girls' night next time.”

Awkward silence.

“I mean, she's not Ruth's boss any more, so there's no conflict there. And really, if you get to know her, then, well…” Rupa petered out, shrugging her shoulders at the floor.

“I think it's great that you're friends and she's been there for you. But the rest of us have some catching up to do. I'm not sure we're ready to trust Vanessa yet at a girls' night.” Lois smiled to soften her words. “How about we invite her along to some other stuff, get to know her a bit better first? Give Ruth a bit of distance – Vanessa wasn't exactly a pleasant boss. Does that sound okay?” She looked around, gauging our opinion.

We shrugged, mumbled, fiddled with our cups. No, it was not really okay, but hey-ho, these Christian women didn't half go in for giving people fresh starts.

It was my turn to say grace. I had been stressing all day, trying to wangle my way out of it, remembering Freya and Martha's withering assessment of my praying abilities on the yurt weekend.

The girls were having none of it. “Don't be an idiot, Ruth. It's just talking.”

I sighed. “You women have no idea how incredible you are, do you? And that it might actually be intimidating for people like me.”

“People like you?” Emily scoffed. “What – brave, beautiful, compassionate, wise, artistic, funny people?”

“I was thinking of messed-up, clueless, guilt-ridden, broke, homeless people, actually.”

Ana Luisa was horrified. “Is this how you see yourself,
still
?”

I thought about it. “Okay. I'll say grace. No teasing.”

“Get on with it then! The lasagne'll go cold.”

“Right. God. Hello. Um. Thanks for tonight; that we can be together. Thanks for friends who see us differently to how we see ourselves, and aren't afraid to tell us when we're being pitiful. Thanks for love in dark places, for hope – and Hope – and for keeping her
safe so far. Please help Rupa to relax this evening; may our love and laughter recharge her batteries, restore her strength and refresh her soul. Help us keep girls' night real. It is a rare thing to find people you can be utterly honest with. I can't believe these women call me their friend. And that carrot cake looks like it came straight from heaven. Thank you. Amen.”

We toasted friendship, and being excellent women, and Hope. Then Lois told us a story about how Martha had tried to set a roast chicken free in the garden, and we laughed so hard we almost felt our ribs crack.