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Kitabı oku: «Someone Like You», sayfa 9
She should have refused him when he asked her out for a drink that evening. But then, Hannah was her mother’s daughter and, at the age of twenty-seven, she was still young enough to be impressed by someone who actually wrote for the Evening Press.
At home in Connemara, the Campbell family had only ever read two newspapers: the local paper the Western People and the Sunday Press. She’d grown up with it, had watched her mother put the previous week’s paper at the bottom of the chickens’ coop when they were hatched under the kitchen table; had laid it on the floor so that the men coming home from working on the farm wouldn’t muddy the floor with their filthy boots. To go out with someone who worked for the same group, well!
Of course, when she finally met Harry, court reporter extraordinaire, Hannah’s mother hadn’t been that impressed by him despite his job. But it was too late then. Hannah loved him and could already see herself walking down the aisle with him, radiant in white something or other, smiling for the official photo which would appear in that Sunday’s paper. Together for richer for poorer, for better for worse. Hannah loved that idea, the notion of stability, security.
Marriage hadn’t been on Harry’s mind. ‘I’m a free spirit, Hannah, you’ve always known that: I thought that’s what you liked about me,’ he’d said as she stared at him slack-jawed the day he told her about South America.
‘Yes, but up till now your version of being a free spirit meant going to music festivals, buying Jimi Hendrix albums and not paying the phone bill until they threaten to cut us off!’ she shrieked, when she finally found her voice.
Harry shrugged. ‘I’m not getting any younger,’ he said. He was the same age as Hannah. ‘I don’t want to waste my life. This trip is just what I’ve been looking for. I’ve been stagnating, Hannah. We both have.’
That was when she picked up his leather jacket and threw it out the front door. ‘Leave!’ she yelled. ‘Leave now, before you waste any more of your precious life. I’m so sorry I was a waste of time and contributed to your stagnation.’
She hadn’t seen or heard from him since. He’d left there and then, and slipped back in to pack up his stuff the following day when she wasn’t at home. Rage and fury had possessed Hannah as soon as he was gone, and she’d immediately moved out of the flat they’d shared into another smaller, nicer place, using their deposit money to buy a new bed and sofa. There was no way she was sleeping on the bed she’d shared with that bastard. If he wanted his share of the money back, he could sue her. He already owed her ten years of her life, not to mention all the cash she’d loaned him over the years because he frittered his salary away.
For a year, nothing. And now, out of the blue, came a letter. On the first day of her new job, Hannah sat for a moment at her kitchen table, staring into space. Then she wrenched open the drawer and read the rest of the letter.
Two paragraphs from the end, Harry got to the point: ‘I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m writing, Hannah. But you can’t cut someone out of your life when you’ve spent ten years with them.’ Oh yes you can, she hissed at the letter.
I’m coming home in a few months and I’d love to see you. I’ve kept in touch with what you’re up to, thanks to Mitch. He gave me your new address.
Damn Mitch, cursed Hannah. One of Harry’s old colleagues, she’d told him where she was living when they’d bumped into each other in the supermarket a few months ago.
I’d love to see you, Hannah, although I’m not sure if you’d want to see me. I’d understand it, but I hope you don’t still feel bitter.
Bitter! Bitter wasn’t the word. Toxic with rage fitted the bill much better, Hannah fumed.
I think about you a lot and feel that we went through so much we’ve got unfinished business between us. If you’re keen, you can e-mail me. Bye, Harry.
His e-mail address was at the bottom but Hannah barely looked at it. She felt dizzy with temper, absolutely straight-up furious. How could he? Just when she was sorting her life out, how dare he try and weasel his way back in. See him again? She’d rather remove her own appendix without an anaesthetic.
The offices of KrisisKids were silent and empty at eight fifteen on Monday morning when Emma let herself into her office and surveyed it with pleasure. Small, really only a cubby-hole, it was plain, simple, and she loved it. The walls were the same restful lemon as the rest of the office, the furniture was blonde wood and the plants that grew luxuriantly on top of her four filing cabinets flourished in the natural light from the huge picture window. Giant posters covered the walls telling visitors to WATCH THE CHILDREN – YOU MIGHT BE THE ONLY PERSON WHO CAN HELP, and giving their phoneline number. Emma had taken over running the phoneline a year ago and had worked hard to develop it from a service which ran during office hours into one which was open round the clock. Staffing a phoneline for such hours was hugely expensive and problematic. But Emma now had a vast rota of qualified counsellors and, although there were times when gremlins got into the system and four people phoned in sick at the same time, it was a big success. Thanks to the phoneline, KrisisKids now received a large state grant and, thanks to a lot of media coverage, the contributions from the public were increasing.
Seeing the phoneline become a success was very rewarding, but Emma often felt it was tragic that there was a need for such a service in the first place. The grainy black-and-white photo of a crying boy on the poster was a set-up. As far as Emma knew, the boy was a happy child model whom the advertising agency had picked because he was small for his age. But the image was powerful nevertheless. His sad eyes seemed to follow Emma around the office, reminding her of how badly people could treat children.
It was ironic, she always thought: she, who was childless, worked in an industry where children were the primary focus.
Emma’s desk was just as pristine as she’d left it a week previously: not one piece of paper marred the gleaming wood, her photo of Pete sat at a perfect right angle to her computer monitor, and the painted wooden box she kept her paper clips in was in its usual position beside the phone. Only her overflowing in-tray was evidence that she’d been on holiday. Files, letters and bits of crinkly photocopy paper sat in a perilous heap, towering over the edges of the plastic tray.
‘Lovely holiday?’ enquired Colin Mulhall, appearing out of nowhere and perching on the edge of Emma’s desk, eyes gleaming inquisitively.
The publicity department second-in-command and office gossip, twenty-something Colin was ruthless in his pursuit of personal details. Emma often felt that MI5 had missed out by not signing Colin up for something. He mightn’t have been able to speak Russian or Iraqi or even basic English, come to that, but his intelligence-gathering skills were second to none. He couldn’t type a press release without hitting the computer spell check at least four times to see if he’d spelled everything right, but if you wanted to know why the new girl in accounts kept coming in with red eyes every morning, Colin was the only man for the job. Except that Emma never wanted to know the gossip. It wasn’t her scene. Being brought up by a mother who lived and breathed gossip had instilled in Emma a loathing for dishing dirt about other people. If the girl in accounts had eight lovers, a drug habit and a fetish for wearing fishnet stockings and no knickers, Emma didn’t want to know about it.
‘Fair enough,’ said Finn Harrison, the charity’s press officer and Colin’s boss, who loved a bit of gossip himself but respected Emma’s decision not to get involved.
‘I don’t know why she’s working for a charity when she’s not the least bit charitable and hasn’t the slightest interest in normal people. She obviously thinks she’s above hearing about our humdrum lives,’ Colin said darkly about Emma. He resented her managerial position. She was his superior and it rankled. He, Colin, should have been third in command to Edward Richards, not the prim Emma Sheridan. ‘Miss Smug with her perfect husband and perfect figure. I bet she has some dark secret. She’s probably having it off with the boss. Her door is always closed. Forward planning meetings, my backside.’ Under the circumstances, Colin and Emma were not best pals. Emma avoided the photocopier when Colin was laboriously copying out his badly typed press releases. But, because as third in command to the MD Emma had access to lots of juicy, top-secret information, Colin was always trying to engage her in friendly conversation.
This couldn’t be it, Emma thought suspiciously. Colin had a tale to tell.
‘You’ll never guess,’ Colin said now, preening ever so slightly in his ridiculous bow-tie (his trademark, he called it) and jaunty yellow shirt that did nothing for his sallow complexion.
‘You’re right, I probably won’t,’ Emma replied.
Colin’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Edward is bringing in an outside PR firm to help with the phoneline. He doesn’t think we’re getting enough good press.’
‘That’s crazy, it’s been working wonderfully,’ Emma shot out. ‘I can’t believe he’s thinking of that without consulting me.’ Suddenly aware that she’d said too much, she clammed up. ‘I better get some work done, Colin,’ she said brightly. ‘Get rid of those holiday cobwebs.’
‘Egypt, was it?’ Colin enquired, knowing he was being dismissed but not wanting to leave yet. ‘Did Pete enjoy it?’
Emma couldn’t resist. She widened her eyes dramatically. ‘Pete didn’t go, Colin,’ she said. ‘See you later.’
Leaving an astonished Colin to interpret that bit of disinformation, Emma sorted through her post. At least having a bit of drama at work took her mind off the crises in her personal life.
CHAPTER EIGHT
From her seat near the escalator, Emma could see Kirsten striding along through the afternoon crowds in the shopping centre looking exactly what she was: wealthy, perkily pretty and utterly sure of herself. And she was only fifteen minutes late, which had to be a record, Emma thought, watching her sister’s progress through the centre, her step as confident as a supermodel. She looked amazing, as usual. Kirsten’s hair, currently a rich chestnut crop, contrasted perfectly with the tiny butter-coloured suede jacket she wore over a tummy-skimming white T-shirt and faded blue jeans. Emma knew she’d have looked ridiculous in an outfit like that, but Kirsten carried it off with ease. People who knew Emma were always amazed to meet Kirsten purely because they looked so utterly different, like the before and after pictures in some glossy magazine feature.
‘I’d never have guessed you two were sisters,’ they’d gasp, staring at Kirsten, who was the picture of adorable modern chic beside deeply conservative and almost old-fashioned Emma. Kirsten looked at home in cute jewelled hairslides and bounced around in clunky contemporary shoes, while Emma wouldn’t dream of using anything other than plain kirby grips to hold her hair back and was a fan of loafers and nice court shoes.
But different hair, clothes and make-up aside, the two sisters actually had incredibly similar features. Both had the same long nose, pale amber-flecked eyes and thin lips. There the resemblance ended.
Kirsten’s irrepressible self-confidence gave her an impish beauty that Emma was convinced she’d never achieve. Emma waited until her sister was half-way up the escalator and began waving to attract her attention.
When Kirsten spotted her, she walked over slowly and sat down on the other seat with a sigh, rifling through her small Louis Vuitton handbag for her cigarettes. Like the square-cut emerald on her wedding-ring finger, the bag was genuine.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, as she always did when they met up. ‘I was on the phone to one of the girls on the committee and I couldn’t get rid of the stupid bitch. I knew you’d get a coffee and sit down if I was late.’ She lit up and inhaled deeply.
Emma couldn’t stop herself from looking reproving. She worried about her younger sister and wished she wouldn’t smoke.
‘They’re Silk Cut White, for God’s sake, Em,’ Kirsten said pre-emptively. ‘There’s so little nicotine in them you’d get cheekbones like Tina Turner sucking to get any hit at all.’ Kirsten grinned evilly. ‘Very useful practice for Patrick, all that sucking. Not,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘as if there’s much of that these days. I’m going to have to order some Viagra if he doesn’t perk up soon.’
‘You’re terrible, Kirsten,’ Emma said mildly. ‘What would poor Patrick think if he knew the things you told me about him? He’d die if he knew you discussed your sex life.’ She was fond of her solemn, hard-working brother-in-law and often wondered how the hell he and Kirsten had managed to stay married for four years without one of them ending up in the dock on murder charges.
‘I only tell you these things, Em,’ protested Kirsten, looking innocent. ‘I have to talk to someone or I’d go mad. It’s work, work, work all the time these days,’ she grumbled. ‘He never stops. We never have any fun any more.’
‘Well, perhaps if you went back to work, you wouldn’t be so bored,’ Emma retorted, more sharply than she’d intended.
‘I’m not going back to work and that’s final.’ Kirsten shuddered and pulled Emma’s empty coffee cup over to use as an ashtray as they were sitting in the no-smoking section. ‘I don’t need the money and I’m not cut out for work, Em. I hated that bloody job in the building society, all that getting up in the morning and sitting in the traffic to be yelled at when I got in for being late. Besides, Patrick likes having his dinner on the table when he comes home. I couldn’t do that and work, could I?’
‘Kirsten, you don’t cook. If it wasn’t for Marks & Spencer’s ready meals, poor Patrick would be a stick insect.’
‘Stop nagging,’ Kirsten said good-naturedly. ‘Will I get you another coffee before we start shopping?’
Over coffee, they discussed their mission: to buy a birthday present for their mother, who would be sixty the following Wednesday.
‘It has to be special,’ Emma said, ‘but I’ve racked my brains and I can’t come up with anything.’
‘I never know what to buy for Mum. Come on, let’s hustle.’ Kirsten stabbed out her third cigarette, got up and led the way to the down escalator. ‘She’s getting worse to buy things for. I asked her the other day if she’d used that beauty salon voucher I gave her for Christmas and she said, “What voucher?” I swear she’s losing her marbles.’
The nagging worry at the back of Emma’s subconscious suddenly leapt to the front of the mental queue. ‘What did you say?’
‘That she’s losing her marbles. Well, she is, Em. Before you all went to Egypt, I was on the phone to her and she asked me how Patrick’s parents were. I mean, Jesus, his father is dead two years. Do you think she’s on something that’s making her dopey? That’s got to be it. You’d need tranquillizers to live with Dad, after all, so I couldn’t blame her…’
As Kirsten chattered away, Emma made herself face up to the notion that had been rippling through her head like quicksilver for months: there was something wrong with her mother. Something wrong with her mind.
All that panicking when they’d been away, the way she’d clung on to her Egyptian currency and refused to hand it over when she was shopping, convinced she was being fiddled by the vendors. She kept trying to go into the wrong cabin, which Jimmy had found irritating. And the way she kept losing things – her glasses, the thread of the conversation. It wasn’t normal, Emma knew it.
‘I think you’re right,’ she said shakily.
‘Really?’ Kirsten said, sounding pleased and running a hand through her glossy hair. ‘I thought you preferred my hair blonde. Patrick loves this colour, says it’s very sexy…’
‘No, I mean about Mum. I think she is losing her marbles. What a horrible phrase, it’s so demeaning. What I mean is that she’s confused and acting strangely. That sounds like…’ Emma hesitated, not even wanting to say the word, ‘…senile dementia.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Kirsten snapped. ‘She’s far too young for that. Old people get it, not Mum. Let’s not talk about it, right?’
Kirsten hated facing the harder side of life and as a child had often simply refused to talk about things which upset her, like her dreadful exam results and the scathing remarks her teachers made in her homework notebook about her disruptive behaviour in class.
‘I’m sorry, Kirsten,’ Emma said firmly, ‘we’ve got to talk about it. Not talking about it won’t make it go away. That’s like having a breast lump and not going to the doctor – the “If I don’t see it, it can’t hurt me” theory.’
‘I’d go to the doctor if I had a breast lump,’ Kirsten insisted.
‘So says the woman who refused to go to the dentist for three years.’
‘That’s different. Now come on, we’re running out of time, Em. We’ve got to buy something for Mum and I want to go into Mango first and see if they’ve any nice things in.’
Emma gave up and followed her sister into the clothes shop. There was no point in arguing with Kirsten when she’d made up her mind. Besides, she was probably right. Dementia was something old people got.
Kirsten strode off to where racks of tiny clothes hung, so Emma headed for the long, suitable-for-the-office skirt department. After a cursory look at some plain grey and black skirts that looked like all the other skirts in her wardrobe, she wandered back to where Kirsten was rifling through a rail of stretchy net tops that looked as if they wouldn’t fit an eight-year-old. Selecting two acid pink ones that would either look amazing or desperate with her hair colour, Kirsten mooched on to the next rail.
‘Aren’t these peachy!’ she said, focusing on skinny black trousers with a line of silver beading down each seam.
‘Try them on,’ Emma said mechanically, the way she’d done for years when they’d shopped as teenagers. Her role had been to hold the handbags and supply different sizes while Kirsten enraged the changing-room queue by spending at least half an hour in the cubicle, discarding things like Imelda Marcos on a shoe-buying frenzy.
‘Yes, I think I will try them. But I’ll just get a couple of other things. No point stripping off for two tops and a pair of trousers.’
As Kirsten scanned the rails with the narrowed eyes of an expert, Emma thought about their mother. She wished she could be like Kirsten and simply not confront problems, or just put them out of her mind. But she couldn’t. Something was wrong with Anne-Marie, she knew it. And she hoped – no, she prayed – it wasn’t senile dementia.
She’d read snippets about it, articles she’d half-scanned in women’s magazines in between fashion features and the problem pages. She’d never exactly been interested, but that curious desire to read about other people’s suffering, if only to thank your lucky stars it wasn’t happening to you, had meant she’d absorbed some information about the disease. A slow, insidious intruder, it crept into people’s minds and took over, making its presence known gradually with moments of forgetfulness, before leading up to…what, exactly? Emma wasn’t sure. Did people die from it?
Waiting outside the cubicle for Kirsten, she tried to put the whole thing out of her mind. Kirsten was right. Their mother was too young…wasn’t she?
‘Great Aunt Petra isn’t coming, is she?’ groaned Kirsten, looking at Emma’s rough table plan for their mother’s birthday dinner.
‘Of course she is,’ Emma said, emerging from basting the goose again, her face puce with heat and exertion. ‘She’s Dad’s only living aunt and he’d go mental if she wasn’t invited.’
‘She’s an unhinged bitch and everybody hates her,’ protested Kirsten. ‘If Dad wants to invite her to their bloody house, that’s his business. I don’t know why the rest of us have to put up with her.’
‘Yeah,’ snapped Emma, fed up with the lack of catering help Kirsten had provided since she’d arrived an hour previously with her hair newly blow-dried and no obvious intention of doing anything useful. ‘And who’d have to put up with the full-scale row there’d be if she wasn’t here? Me, that’s who. I’d never hear the end of it.’
‘Emma, would you listen to yourself? You’re an adult, this is your house and you can invite who you bloody want to. Let Dad throw a tantrum if he wants. Ignore him. I do.’ Kirsten ran a lilac fingernail down the list. ‘Monica and Timmy Maguire! Ugh, he’ll get poor Patrick in a corner and ask him what he should do with his shares, as usual. I told Patrick to ask for a fee next time.’
‘You’re bloody great at telling people what to do,’ hissed Emma, finally having had enough. She was hot, sweaty, tired and fed up with Kirsten. ‘Did you come here to help or to simply point out what an inadequate human being I am?’
Kirsten refused to be riled. ‘Keep your hair on, Sis,’ she answered. ‘You’re only pissed off because you know I’m right. If you don’t stand up to Dad some day, you may as well move back home – because you’re totally under his thumb as it is.’
Emma felt her anger deflate like a pricked balloon. Her eyes filled with tears. The goose wasn’t half-cooked, the guests were rolling up in an hour and Pete, who’d promised to be home early, was stuck with a client in Maynooth and wouldn’t be back until at least seven.
‘It’s easy for you,’ she told Kirsten, feeling hot, angry tears flooding down her face. ‘You’ve always been their pet. You could tell Dad to fuck off and he’d smile indulgently at you. But he hates me; I can never do anything right for him. All I want is some respect – it’s not too much to ask, is it?’ She tried to rub away the tears but they kept coming.
If fury had no effect on Kirsten, neither did weeping, which was why she so successfully dealt with her father’s machinations.
‘He doesn’t hate you, Sis,’ she said calmly, ignoring Emma’s tears. ‘He’s a bully and you’ve let yourself be his own personal punchbag. I can’t help you and neither can Pete. You’re on your own. Jesus, Emma, if you can run that bloody office, then you can certainly deal with Dad, can’t you? Now, what do you want me to do next? You better go upstairs and make yourself presentable or Petra the Gorgon will have a few choice insults to fling at you about how you’re letting yourself go now that you’re married.’
If the birthday dinner proved anything, it proved that their fears about their mother were unfounded. Anne-Marie sailed into the house with her husband in tow, face wreathed in smiles and new earrings to be admired. ‘Aren’t they lovely?’ she said coquettishly, pulling back a strand of long, pale gold hair, which flowed loosely around her shoulders. ‘They’re from your father.’ She kissed Kirsten happily.
‘Darling Kirsten, I don’t know what was wrong with me the other day, I found that lovely voucher you gave me for Christmas. I know it’s bad of me, but I completely forgot about it and now it’s out of date, but it was a lovely thought. I couldn’t see anything with those old glasses, but look –’ she produced new glasses with snazzy gold frames – ‘I’ve got new ones and reading is no problem any more. Hello, Emma love, there’s a nice smell coming from the kitchen. I hope it’s not goose; you know Auntie Petra says it gives her indigestion ever since we had it at her Roland’s christening back in 1957.’
Emma and Kirsten shared a conspiratorial grin. ‘All the more reason for cooking goose, eh?’ whispered Kirsten.
Emma nodded with relief. Her mother was perfectly all right. It was obvious there was nothing wrong with her mind. Nobody who could remember the ill-effects of a goose at a christening in 1957 could possibly have anything wrong with their brain.
Half an hour later, all the guests were there, wandering around the house and chatting. Emma was standing in the kitchen beside the dining-room door, hurriedly ironing the napkins she’d just removed from the drier. Her mother would have had a fit if she’d produced paper ones.
‘It’s a lovely dining room,’ she heard Monica Maguire say. ‘I like these pictures,’ she added, obviously admiring the Paul Klee prints Emma loved.
‘Well, it’s not to my taste,’ Emma overheard her father say gruffly. ‘Still, what can you say. I mean, myself and Anne-Marie gave them the deposit money for it and we’d have liked to have helped them with decorating advice, but you know youngsters, ungrateful.’
Emma stood behind the door into the dining room and felt cold rage flood through her. How dare he tell people he’d given them the deposit money for the house! How dare he! That was their private life. And he hadn’t given it to them, anyway. She and Pete had insisted on treating it as a loan and were paying money into her parents’ account every month. But to casually tell a neighbour about it, as if she and Pete were kids or freeloaders who used and abused…That was terrible, awful. A fierce rage for her father burned in her peaceful soul. God she hated that man!
