These Days of Ours (15 page)

‘This is good.
This.
’ He squeezed her hand. ‘This is good, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Charlie. I mean, Dad and everything . . .’

‘Friendship.’ Charlie nodded vehemently. ‘It’s the most important thing. Not that I’m belittling love. Love is great. But . . .’

‘This is so much better. I agree. It really is.’ Kate sighed happily. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘It is.’

‘We can talk,’ said Kate. ‘
Really
talk. And because we used to . . .’ She wasn’t sure how to describe it.

‘We used to be in love.’ Charlie was sure, apparently.

‘Yes, exactly, because of that, we know each other well and there are no misunderstandings. Friendship,’ she smiled, ‘
rocks.
’

‘I second that.’ Charlie repeated himself in an Oirish accent. ‘I feckin’ second that, you bastard.’

Kate laughed. ‘This is nice,’ she said. And it was. It just wasn’t
enough
.

Letting go of her hand, Charlie pulled out his wallet and rifled through it. ‘Look at this.’

‘Not another pic of the most photographed child on Earth?’

‘Nope.’

It took a moment for Kate to recognise the folded envelope, the ‘K’ in Charlie’s handwriting just visible.

‘You gave this back to me once, Kate.’

‘I remember.’ Kate wondered what Charlie was smiling about. She felt flattened, like a tent peg hammered into the grass, at the sight of the note.

‘I want . . .’ Charlie sucked in a great breath through his teeth. ‘Bear with me, Kate, I didn’t plan this. But I want you to have it.’

Kate clambered to her feet. ‘No thanks.’ She was curt. She glanced at Flo on the bed and the little dot’s resemblance to Becca stung. This was not a conversation to have in the
same room as such an innocent.

‘Hang on.’ Charlie leaped up. ‘I’m doing this all wrong. Sorry. Can you just humour me?’

‘What?’ Kate was impatient, confused.

‘It wasn’t easy writing that letter, you know.’

‘It wasn’t easy reading it.’

‘But it’s yours.’ Charlie held out the ageing envelope, which seemed to Kate to have doubled in size.

‘I don’t need it.’ Kate closed her eyes. ‘I can quote the sodding thing, Charlie.’

‘Is this a row?’ asked Charlie, amused and dismayed at the same time. ‘Are we fighting?’

‘Don’t be cute.’ When he put his head to one side like that it demeaned what she’d been through. On this evidence, the break-up had been radically different for Charlie,
a matter of little import. His rejection of her was something he could joke about.

‘Can we start again?’ Charlie’s plea was tinged with annoyance. ‘This has gone awry. I didn’t mean to . . . Look, take it, Kate. It’s addressed to
you.’

Snatching the note, Kate said, ‘Great. Thanks. Bloody hell, Charlie.’

The party devoured her when she dashed downstairs, whirling relentlessly, a snake eating its own tail, suddenly rearing up when it seemed about to flag. Every other guest was what’s known
as the wrong side of fifty, but Kate had never known such wild energy at festivities with people her own age.

Grabbing a drink Kate retreated, stuffing the envelope angrily into her bag as she bumped into Becca.

‘Ooh. Somebody’s cheesed you off.’ Becca jumped back as Kate stormed past her. ‘It’s Julian, isn’t it?’

‘No. Yes.’ Better to make Julian the fall guy than explain to Becca.

Sitting on the doorstep, they shared the drink, as they had in the old days at parties. Behind them a centurion and a policewoman (a sexy one, naturally) did the twist on the hall carpet.

‘Shall I ring Julian?’ Becca slapped her corset as if searching for her phone. ‘Get him to come?’

‘Don’t be daft.’ Kate defended her scapegoat. ‘He puts up with a lot from me. Let’s give him a night off.’

Not everything that looks like love is love
, thought Kate, as Becca rampaged on.

‘None of what’s going on is your fault! Did you make your poor dad ill? No!’ Becca crossed herself. She hadn’t set foot in a church since Flo’s christening but old
Catholic habits die hard. ‘Should you apologise for being a shit hot business bitch? No!’

You’re free and so am I
, thought Kate.

‘He made vows!’

‘We all did,’ said Kate, half listening.
This split is for the best.

‘In sickness and in health. Well, it didn’t specify. He should support you through your dad’s sickness too.’

This second rejection by Charlie should be a pale reprise but it hurt as much as the first time. There was only one possible reason: she loved him still.

Charlie was at the head of the stairs, Flo small in his arms. They were a cameo of gentleness, of straightforward love. A feeling of exclusion, of pressing her nose against a toyshop window
swept over Kate. She went to find her father. She could hide there, by the side of his armchair. She could lose herself in the dozen little tasks he needed done.

Dad waved her away. ‘You go and enjoy yourself, love.’ He’d just woken up. Only an invalid, alienated by the slow subjugation of his body, could sleep in the midst of this
maelstrom.

‘I
am
enjoying myself,’ said Kate, counting his meds, refilling his water glass. Inspired to reach out to Julian, she sent a text.

Despairing of her inability to sex up her texts, Kate longed to be near Julian. Becca’s rant had, perversely, brought him into sharp focus as a good uncomplicated person
who had always loved her.
I made vows too
, Kate reminded herself. And if they were to the wrong man, that was Kate’s fault, and Julian shouldn’t suffer for it.

‘Did you see the pics of Yulan House’s new driveway?’ Dad was groping for his phone.

‘Yes, I did.’ Just as she was now expert on lymph nodes, Kate was knowledgeable on the pros and cons of tarmac in a hot, damp climate. ‘Jia Tang sounds confident about getting
that grant to refurbish the smaller dormitory, doesn’t she?’

‘She’s always confident. That’s her nature.’

‘I guess so.’ Kate watched Charlie jiggle Flo on the dancefloor.

‘Have you chased up the last few sponsors for your 10k run?’

‘Almost.’

Flo had the room delirious with happiness.

‘Good. How much did you raise in total, love?’

Charlie wiped his eyes, laughing fit to burst, as Flo strutted her funky toddler stuff.

‘Just over three hundred quid. I was ruthless, remember. I roped in everybody I’ve ever met to sponsor me. Keep sipping at your water, Dad. Keep hydrated.’

Each nugget of Yulan House news, each exhortation to swallow this or take that, was a gift from Kate to her dad. They were tokens of love, just like the countless ones he’d given her by
tucking her in at night, kissing her on the forehead when she left for school, scribbling a limerick in her birthday card each year.

Charlie was giving Flo these same gifts. The to and fro of parental love continued. Charlie could never repudiate Flo and therefore could never repudiate Flo’s mother. It was Kate who must
be denied over and over.

Joining them with the face she reserved for talking to her uncle – as if he had regressed to a slightly deaf childhood – Becca said, slightly too loud, ‘How are we feeling? Is
the music too much?’

‘I’m fine, sweetheart.’ Dad was gracious, knowing Kate would limit his exposure to his niece.

‘If you want anything, just tell me.’ Becca was shouting now, her eyeliner almost gone. ‘You’re a fighter.’ Becca grabbed Dad’s arm. ‘You won’t
let it beat you.’

Tears threatened behind the false eyelashes. Becca had a real dread of losing her uncle. Their parents, all four of them, were a sacred quartet who had shaped the lives of Kate and Becca.

Indulgent, Dad patted her hand. When he was in pain or suffering from sleeplessness he could be short tempered, but on the whole he tapped into a newfound serenity. He needed it; people behaved
oddly around mortal illness.

‘Let’s dance, Madonna.’ Kate rescued her father.

‘Whoo hoo!’ Becca cleared a path with her elbows and plucked Flo off the carpet.

The lights laid bare the mess. The sitting room looked as if vindictive, efficient burglars had ransacked it. Princess Di hoovered around Shakespeare asleep on the sofa as the
Virgin Mary tied up bin bags. Becca swayed, watching the older women clear up.

Her ears ringing in the sudden calm, Kate stabbed out another text message.

Charlie was in charge of collecting glasses; the plastic ones from Kate’s shop that looked ‘just like the real thing’. ‘It’s exhausting swearing
all the time,’ he told Kate, with what felt like exploratory friendliness. ‘I don’t know how Bob Geldof copes.’

Kate’s smile seemed to reassure him there were no hard feelings, but she noticed he studied her for a long moment before leaping out of the way of Aunty Marjorie’s drunken vacuum
cleaner.

The mulish introverted look on Becca’s face presaged a row. Charlie kept a careful ten feet between himself and his wife at all times. Becca usually neglected her other half at parties,
but tonight Kate had noticed her cousin watching Charlie and Flo together with a special intensity, as if studying a pair of animals in the wild. When Becca’s lips worked like that, furiously
writhing against each other, it meant she was trying to keep something in. Something that would break things, shatter stuff. To distract her, Kate handed her a broom but when the same square foot
of lino had been swept a dozen times, she said, ‘Come with me,’ and led her out into the garden.

The bitter cold slapped them in the face. Time to get it over and done with. Kate’s breath was fog as she said, ‘What’s the matter, Bec?’

One of her cone breasts dented, Becca said, ‘Nothing. Well. Everything.’ She threw up her hands. ‘You’re always good and I’m always . . . I’m bad,
Kate.’

‘Nobody’s
always
anything.’ Kate didn’t like the idea of herself as a perennial goodie two shoes.

‘You’re going to hate me.’ She screwed up her face, as if in pain. ‘Why oh why . . .’ she began.

‘
Why oh why
what?’

‘Eh?’ Becca looked confused at having her train of thought interrupted. ‘Let me speak for once, Kate!’

‘Go on, then. Just this once.’

‘You are definitely one hundred per cent going to hate me. From here.’ Becca tapped her wig. ‘To here.’ She pointed at her feet.

She seemed to mean it. ‘I could never hate you,’ said Kate. ‘Not unless you murdered somebody. And even then it would depend on who you murdered.’

‘I hate myself.’ No tears. Not one. This was a bad sign. ‘I had to do it, Kate. You won’t agree. But I did. I had to do it.’

‘If you have a confession, madam, get on with it.’

‘You have to know, right? And you have to say it’s OK. I feel so bad about it. I wake up in the middle of the night.’ Becca hugged herself in her outrageous gear, a goose
pimpled superstar. ‘You have to absolve me.’

‘I’m not a priest.’ Kate’s skin prickled. She felt something heading for her, hard and fast. A comet. ‘Why the sudden urge to confess? Can’t it wait until
you’ve sobered up?’

Shaking her head as if such a suggestion was madness, Becca glared at her. ‘I’ve waited long enough. It’s eating at me. You’re the only person I want to tell, the only
person I
can
tell.’ She closed her eyes, as if blocking out a vile apparition. ‘I thought I could bear it, but it keeps raising its head. I’m glad I’m a bit pissed.
It’s the only way I’ll get it out.’ She opened her eyes, their expression fierce. ‘First, though, promise you won’t judge me.’

That was too much to ask, even for somebody accustomed to Becca’s outrageous demands. ‘All I can promise is that I’ll try and understand.’

Eyes wide in smudged mascara, Becca whispered, ‘Flo isn’t Charlie’s.’

‘How do you mean?’ Kate’s brain went smooth; the meaning of the simple sentence simply wouldn’t click into place.

Stamping her foot Becca said, ‘What do you
think
I mean? Charlie isn’t Flo’s dad.’

Even though Becca had barely raised her voice those words were grenades. Both women glanced, paranoid, at the domestic tableau framed by the lit kitchen window.

At the sink, Charlie stared out at them. Kate’s breath paused until he waved the washing up brush playfully.

‘Shit,’ croaked Becca. ‘I thought he heard. He can’t know. Not ever.’

Kate felt burdened, stiff. Becca had dipped her in emotional cement.

‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Becca was defiant. ‘But I did it for pure reasons.’

‘You don’t know what I’m thinking.’

‘Charlie can’t have a child, Kate! He couldn’t give me a healthy baby, then he couldn’t give me one at all. This was the only way.’ No longer defiant, Becca was
pleading.

‘Is it . . . are you having an affair?’

‘God, no. It was a one night thing.’ Becca revised that thought. ‘A three night thing. I don’t even have the guy’s number any more. He has no idea.’

Circles within circles. Another victim of Becca’s freewheeling selfishness.

‘And Flo?’ asked Kate. ‘When are you going to tell her?’

‘Flo?’ Becca’s horror implied she’d never even considered that eventuality. ‘Why would I tell Flo?’

Amazed she had to answer such a question, Kate said, ‘You mean why does a person have the right to know the identity of their own father?’

‘I knew,’ spat Becca, ‘you’d be mean to me.’

‘Then why the hell did you tell me?’

‘I wish I hadn’t.’ Becca was back in her comfort zone, hugging her resentments to her pointy chest, the aggrieved party.

Sensing an eruption of some sort in the air, Kate battled her own feelings to soften her voice. ‘It’s good that you’ve got this off your chest.’ She was already nostalgic
for a minute ago, the time before she Knew All. ‘But you can’t undo everything just by confessing.’ She moved towards Becca. ‘Listen—’

‘I’m tired of listening.’ Becca was, Kate could tell, tormented by her own misdeeds. She thrashed about, trying to evade the spotlight by accusing the nearest person –
usually, and this time, Kate – of something equally heinous. ‘What makes you so high and mighty, Kate? Some of us screw up! We can’t all be perfect like you.’