I Should Be So Lucky (30 page)

‘Oh well, she landed on her feet there then, getting off with some random roadie.’ Kate pulled a disapproving face.

‘Compared with the semi-formed Neanderthals we’d been with in Paris, I’d say yes she did, actually. I loved
the
hitching bit. I felt like a teenager again. I’ve been a parent since I was twenty so I think I’m owed a bit of reckless fun.’

‘God, Viola, don’t you think you’ve had enough of reckless for a lifetime? You know what your luck’s like. Fate-tempting really isn’t a hobby option for you. And I don’t know how you can live in this hexed house. Sell it. Come and get a nice flat near me, then I can keep an eye on you.’

‘An eye? No chance! And you can’t blame the house, Kate. It’s not the tiniest bit hexed. And just because I made one stupid mistake with my life doesn’t mean I have to spend the rest of it being too timid to breathe. You’re looking good, by the way. I like your hair shorter, it suits you.’ She’d had the colour done as well, Viola noticed. No trace of those greying roots, just some subtle shadings of dark blonde and copper. Way to go, she thought. ‘Is it about getting Rob back? Let him see what he’s missing and then he’ll be begging you to take him back again?’

‘No, it’s not! It’s about new beginnings, all that. Moving on, as they say, in fact as
you
say.’ Kate smiled – a beaming sort of smile that looked as if she absolutely couldn’t prevent it. If this hadn’t been her habitually pessimistic sister with a divorce on the cards, Viola would have thought she was up to something. It was good to be able to change the subject. Another moment or two and Kate would be sure to mention Rhys. She
always
seemed to. If she were really keen on the moving-on thing, she’d do better to stop referring back to him.

‘
And
you’ve got make-up on. In the morning. That’s so not you. Come on, what’s happened? Have you been out somewhere?
Are
you seeing someone?’

‘Of course I’m not!’ Kate blushed, looking suddenly girlish. ‘And the only place I’ve been to is a wedding, while you were swanning about in Paris. One of the golf-club fogeys married a Lady Player. It was quite a sweet event, even considering how off weddings I’m feeling. And you had to laugh: there was this guard of honour of oldies with niblicks or wedges or whatever the fattest sticks are called. They’re off to live in a bungalow in Lytham St Annes, so at least that’s two less people breaking my windows – or what
used to be
my windows. I only went so I could watch Rob making cow eyes at
her
across the room. You should see her, Vee. She’s got candyfloss hair like Margaret Thatcher’s in the nineties and no beam end at all. Just flat down from neck to feet. He used to like my curvy bum.’

‘Perhaps she’s got …’

‘Ugh, no, whatever it is, don’t say it!’ Kate put her hands over her ears. ‘I
really
don’t want to think of them
in that way
.’

Viola laughed. ‘I was only going to say, maybe she’s got an enviable handicap, golf-wise, I mean.’

‘Well, in a way she has got a golf handicap. She’s got
Rob
. Wait till she finds him standing by her dishwasher clutching a plate and looking puzzled, like there should be some magic code to make the door open. By the way, did you talk to that Greg bloke about us all being distant cousins? Tracing Dad’s side of the family back is fascinating stuff. Mum’s will be all cotton workers and mill girls, I expect. I’ll do them next.’

‘Er … no. I haven’t actually seen him. I’ve been going over next term’s courses, trying to work out if I can persuade the new bunch that they’ll love
Northanger Abbey
if they just think of it as part of the connection from
Dracula
to the
Twilight
books. Kind of Jane Austen lite.’

‘If you don’t want to tell him, maybe I will,’ Kate said, laying out the fabric swatches on the kitchen table all across Viola’s books and notes.

‘No! No, don’t, Kate. Just leave it, will you?’

‘You’ve had a row, haven’t you?’ Kate gave her a beady look. ‘See, you’re learning at last. If it starts going bad, just walk away.’

‘Not a row. I don’t know him well enough even to have a row.’

‘I’ll admit he seemed nice.’

‘Too nice, maybe.’

‘Too nice, yes, not that trustable. Anyway don’t lose touch, I’ve got questions for the family-tree thing.’

‘Oh, Kate, can’t you just leave it? Please?’

Viola started looking through the fabrics, avoiding
Kate’s
probing. Vertical stripes would be good for Roman blinds, she thought, trying to summon up interest. She didn’t want to talk about Greg, especially to Kate. When she got back from Paris she’d immediately checked the house phone in case he’d called. Nothing. He must have taken her wariness as a sign to get right out of her life. His abrupt end to that last call did make her wonder if it was Mickey who’d strolled into the office, not a client. Good, she told herself. Excellent. Problem solved, without her having to listen to him admitting his interest in her was just a cheery on-the-side dalliance. Pity it didn’t make her feel as truly relieved and content as she should be. Dangerous stuff, all this: to be avoided.

‘OK, I won’t contact him then, but you really should talk to him, you know,’ Kate said, holding up a piece of pale linen patterned with big blue tulips. ‘At least if he knows we’re slightly related it might put him off chasing you. Because obviously you don’t want that.’

That was another ouch moment. Viola let it pass. Kate went blithely on, ‘He’s been here, though, hasn’t he? Since our dinner here the other night?’

‘No, he hasn’t. Why do you say that?’

‘Just the roses at the front, looking all glossy and tidy and no old dead petals. Or have you got yourself a real gardener? No – you couldn’t afford one. You didn’t dead-head them yourself, did you? I hope you didn’t go up a ladder. Miles would have a fit if he knew. So would Mum.’

Viola felt cold. Why would Greg come and do her gardening? After her negative attitude on the phone, he certainly wasn’t likely to come round and trim her roses. Kate couldn’t be right, surely; the dead petals must simply have fallen off.

‘No, it wasn’t me. I hadn’t noticed. Like I said, I’ve been up to here in books for next term while Rachel’s away, sorting lesson plans for the new intake and the new syllabus. I don’t think I’d have noticed if someone had taken the roof off the place. But hey, I’m going to look.’

She went to the front door, followed by Kate, and opened it warily, as if Greg (or whoever the phantom rose-tidier was) might be waiting in the porch to pounce. It could be the gladioli-sender. Who might also be the person who sent the horrible anonymous cards. If so (though why they’d want to take on garden chores was a mystery), it could all add up to another dose of full-scale stalking. Worst of all, how terrifying if it were the woman Rhys
had
gone off with, coming back, haunting, blaming, hating her. This was far more disturbing than back at the beginning, when Rhys first died. At least then it hadn’t been just one lunatic obsessive, but several hysterically silly overreacting fans. How could she ever, back then, have known she’d feel safer with the numbers? Too late now, though – no way was she going to move out of her home and hide away again. This
had
to pass.

Kate’s dog Beano was in the porch pawing at something behind the big stone pig that Marco had given her years ago as a birthday present.

‘What’s he got?’ Viola said as Beano dragged what looked like muddy paper out from behind the statue.

‘Looks like something the postman dropped, I think,’ Kate said, pulling him away. ‘Here, some sort of card by the looks of it. Maybe a welcome-back one from a neighbour. Did you get any of those? Anyone send you anything?’

Viola shook her head. ‘No. Next door came round with an apple pie and to tell me she hoped there wouldn’t be any more of “that nonsense like before” but that’s all.’

‘Oh. Nice and sympathetic then.’ Kate sounded despondent.

Viola took the envelope from Kate, her hand trembling. It had been hand-delivered and her name on the front was not – she was glad to see – in the same tremulous capitals as the kitten card had had. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. She’d look at it later, when Kate had gone, but not now in case it was vile and frightening. It would be hard to hide a reaction to that, which would result in Kate talking to Miles and them ganging up on her in an onslaught of I-told-you-so.

She stepped further out into the garden and looked up at the roses. ‘Oh, wow, how could I have not noticed? They look amazing!’ The flowers were luxuriantly
thriving
, but with all the tatty, browned blooms cut off. With treatment like that, they’d probably still be flowering at Christmas. ‘It must have involved a ladder but I haven’t got one, so you don’t need to worry about it being me up there, Kate.’

Aaagh – another lurch of the stomach. Whoever it was had taken the trouble to do even the highest ones, up by her bedroom window. Which meant someone had been up at looking-into-the-room level. This was beyond creepy. And yet, if it
was
Greg, what was there to mind? If things had worked out he’d have seen the inside of the room soon enough. This could only have happened when she and Lisa were having their Paris day.

‘Well, it looks pretty damn professional,’ Viola said, going to sniff one of the lower blooms and trying to sound a lot more upbeat than she felt. ‘And if they’d like to come back and tackle the jungle in the back garden they’d be very welcome.’

‘Aren’t you going to open the card?’ Kate asked, as they went back into the house.

‘Oh, no, it’s OK, it can wait till later. Let’s look at the material and then at your flats. I’ll make some coffee.’ She tucked the card away in the cutlery drawer. An hour later would be more than soon enough.

Monica wasn’t herself. Naomi realized this as soon as she arrived at the flat (where she was let into the main
building
by a conveniently outgoing resident) and saw the empty plastic milk bottles lined up on the corridor carpet outside her front door, as if they were to be collected on a regular milk round. Monica always bought her milk from the corner shop up the road because she liked the small anarchy of the owner breaking up the four-packs of baked beans and putting them for sale on the shelves, disregarding the signs on the cans saying ‘Not to be sold separately’. She probably hadn’t seen a milk roundsman in all the years she’d lived here. She might be perfectly all right, of course, just a bit scattier than usual, or she might have gone seriously loopy overnight. You heard of that happening. The trick was to work out whether it was a sign of swiftly advancing dementia or just down to some fixable infection, where the brain would sort itself out after a good dosing with antibiotics.

‘Monica? It’s me, Naomi.’ She knocked on the door and waited, feeling nervous about what she’d find.

‘Come in; mind you don’t let the cat out,’ Monica said, as she opened the door.

‘You haven’t got a cat.’ Monica’s old Siamese, Bertie, was long gone, and pets weren’t allowed in the flats.

‘Oh, haven’t I? No, I expect you’re right. I’ve been wondering where he was. So it means that if Bertie’s not here, I haven’t got him any more, yes?’

At least she remembered the cat’s name. Was that a good sign? Naomi hoped so.

‘Something like that, love. Are you feeling all right?’ Naomi could see Monica was looking gaunt, suddenly quite a lot older, although she’d seen her only a week ago. It was as if five years had somehow lurched by in that time. She hadn’t brushed her hair and the back of it stuck up like sheep’s wool in a hedge. That wasn’t like her. Monica was always very meticulous about appearance. And about appearances. She’d never have divorced Oliver, not a chance: it would have looked slovenly and careless, losing her husband to another woman. No point dwelling on it all these years on, Naomi told herself. It was down to her to be the friend to Monica that she’d promised the slowly dying Oliver she would be. As it turned out, that hadn’t been at all difficult. Monica was the talker and do-er, Naomi the listener and thinker in their set-up. It was an ideal combination for easy companionship. And it meant Monica never asked her any questions about Oliver, because she’d never been curious or imaginative enough to want to know why Naomi quietly mourned him just as much as she did. In fact, even that was something she’d probably not noticed.

‘Coffee first, or shall we get going?’ Naomi went into Monica’s kitchen and had a quick look round, hoping she wouldn’t find unwashed dishes stuffed into the oven or potatoes in the cutlery drawer. All seemed well, though she still felt uneasy.

‘Going? Where are we going?’

Naomi saw Monica catch sight of herself in the hall mirror and frown, as if this was a face she didn’t quite recognize. Perhaps she too had glimpsed the newly lost years. Monica put a hand up to her untidy hair and squinted at her reflection, puzzled.

‘We’re going to the library, Mon, do you remember? I’m after another Lesley Cookman murder story and you said you wanted to give Maigret a go.’

‘Maigret. French, smokes. Yes, I like him. Fine, I’m ready.’ Monica turned and stood looking at Naomi, as expectant as a child.

‘You might want to run a comb through your hair first, pet,’ Naomi suggested, getting Monica’s jacket down for her from the peg on the back of the door. Monica obediently went into her bedroom while Naomi waited, holding the well-worn garment close to her body. This was going to be someone else to miss, and possibly not too far ahead now, because Monica would be absent for a long time before she actually went. Naomi made a decision, a tough one she knew instinctively was right. She just hoped her family wouldn’t try to oppose it. And if they did, well, it would be time to tell them why they couldn’t.

TWENTY-SIX

OF COURSE SHE
should have checked on the day they appeared. It was entirely her own fault and she shouldn’t have just taken her mother’s word that there was no card; she should have looked. If the envelope had fallen down behind the stone pig, how could Naomi have thought to look there for anything? Viola sat at the kitchen table in front of her computer and read the words on the card again. It was a website link and just ‘Greg’. The link was about gladioli, specifically the meaning of the name and including: ‘
The flower of infatuation, a bouquet signifying that the spear has pierced the giver’s heart with passion
’.