‘Great,’ I said. ‘Maybe they’ll meet up.’ And she laughed, in a wheezy way, and asked me to fetch her a Coke from the fridge.
When Rose came home, paying Annis her £10 and dismissing her, I was still there, in front of Question Time. It wasn’t until she started turning lights off that she noticed me.
‘What are you doing up?’ she said. ‘Get to bed.’
I pointed to the TV. ‘They’re in Norwich this week. House prices are going through the roof.’ It was an open reference to the conversation I’d heard earlier, though of course there was no way Rose would ever understand that, or suspect I was there. But I wanted to tell her, tell her I heard her say we were her babies, and were we? Because she never said it to us.
Instead, I said ‘Will Dad come back?’
She tutted and snapped ‘It’s late, off you go.’
Some bit of backbone made me say ‘But will he?’
And she stared at me, chewing her lip, then said ‘Only if you’re a good girl.’
I was, and he didn’t. Once again, she made it my fault when it was hers.
* * *
Back in the restaurant, the atmosphere is buzzing. Sheer ambience. The Brycgstow is truly Bristol’s hottest riverside inn right now – practically everyone is on Twitter recounting the events of the evening and speculating the cause. I march straight up to Alan, who is directing his staff to sweep up the broken glass.
‘I am so sorry about this,’ I say. ‘I just don’t know what came over her. She’s very . . . unpredictable at the moment. It’s her condition.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ says Alan nobly. He’s cut his hand on a shard and is bleeding profusely.
‘Oh, but I must.’ I brandish a credit card – not mine; my mother’s, filched from her purse when I put her in the cab. ‘Please let me pay for the damage, along with the meal, of course.’
Rose can certainly afford it – Cousin Jack may have long since scarpered but he gave her the family home and still pays spousal maintenance, which she’s always resisted sharing with her daughters, preferring us to make our own way in life as she says it’s character-building. I whack £750 on her Visa and kiss Alan on the cheek.
‘It’ll be a superb write-up,’ I promise. It’s no lie – I don’t know about Marina, but I’ll do him a lovely review on Tripadvisor.
Alan flushes with pleasure, eyeing Maz, who has returned from the back room, bearing Bigwig, who seems gratifyingly pleased to see me.
‘It has been an honour,’ Alan says, bowing.
‘How are you getting back?’ I ask my sister, thinking that I don’t want her driving home after the amount of wine and alcoholic pond water she’s put away.
‘Cal is picking me up,’ Maz replies, settling the rabbit in my bag. ‘What was that text from Dad about?’ she murmurs, as we make our way out, followed by curious stares and muttered comments.
I chuckle. ‘He and Val decamped to an Airbnb for a couple of weeks while they got their kitchen redone. It’s nearly finished. Plus, he was thanking me for the photo I sent him of Hazel and Ethan.’
I showed my mother an edited version of our exchange and she saw what I wanted her to see. It’s all in the edit, as Other Delia would say.
‘Thought as much. Was that wise though?’
‘Was what wise?’
‘Riling her like that.’
‘Do you think it was wrong?’
She pauses, by the photo of Ruby and Elsie. ‘I’ve often wanted to see her pushed to the brink, and brought down. But when it finally happened, it didn’t feel as good as I thought it would.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I grin. ‘I thought it felt pretty good.’
My sister raises her eyebrows. ‘Really? But how will you feel tomorrow?’
The truth is, I don’t know. But today; today I feel OK. And I’ve got to push on, while I still feel this way.
39
I was so worried I’d be a mother like my own, and in many ways, I think I am. Constantly distracted, endlessly busy with other things, uttering the phrase ‘Just a second!’ continually, dashing around facilitating their lives without actually being very involved in either of them. I don’t think I’m much fun, or as constantly loving and patient as I ought to be. Early on when they were babies, I remember being at a clinic to see the health visitor, trying to get the twins undressed, bustling between them as they kicked and bellowed. There was a mother nearby, tickling and laughing at her naked baby, and I realized I was so focused on my task, so caught up in the logistics of dealing with these wriggling, keening creatures, that my expression was completely set in concentration. Had I ever smiled at them? The realization froze me, my hands on their tight-as-a-drum tummies as my frown deepened. What kind of mother didn’t smile at her babies? One like mine? Then I couldn’t remember if they had ever smiled – they were over six weeks old, surely it should have happened by now, but I’d never noticed, and if it hadn’t, it was because they’d never learned how, thanks to their scowling mother who was too busy fiddling with their nappies to lift the corners of her mouth.
So I smiled at them. With them on their mats, half undressed and grizzling, a slow, rictus grin spread across my face – an approximation of what they needed, wholly inadequate. It didn’t reach my eyes, which were full of tears. But, miraculously, it did the job. Both of them stilled, staring at my face, and then – then – they responded. Two gorgeous, gummy grins that warmed me to my core and infused me with the sense that yes, in some ways, I was like my mother, but in others – ones that counted – I was my own woman, breaking the cycle. My babies. The smile became a real one, full and true; the three of us beamed and gushed at each other until the health visitor told us to hurry up and get on the scales. Ethan was underweight and Hazel had nappy rash, and so I felt inadequate again, and scurried home with both of them screaming for a feed.
Over the years I’ve felt less and less, and more and more, like I’m turning into my mother but I’ve never felt anything other than tied to her, tangled up in her thorny creepers, obsessively fixated on her failings, cataloguing her crimes, unable to extricate myself. Until I watched the taxi drive away, further and further from me. Apron strings, severed. Or am I kidding myself? As Rose’s taxi disappears from view, I get the uncomfortable feeling that it isn’t the last I’ll see of her tonight.
Barbara Good nudges me, and I realize we’d better get on. The intense light of the summer day is fading, it’s nearly 9 p.m., and the Red Eye party will be starting soon. Taking her rein, I start the short walk to the venue, mulling. Because Vincent’s PA Imogen coerced me, I’ve been involved in every step of this party’s organization, right down to checking out the venue we’ve booked, a sort of brasserie-cum-nightclub on The Mall. She insisted I meet her there to make sure it was suitable, so I dutifully took time out of my busy day to traipse around and approve it. Picturing the layout, it’s clear where everything will be taking place – we’ve booked out the whole of the first and second floors, which include a large bar area, a smaller, cosier drinking den next door, along with the screening room, plus a cloakroom, and private dining room for the pre-party dinner where Vince started the wooing process with a few select guests. There’s also a dressing room for when they do comedy and music gigs.
This is all mapped out in my head, and the pieces have gradually been slotting into place throughout the day, but now I have to acknowledge I can’t do it on my own. It may be against my nature as an overanxious executive producer, but I’m going to have to step up a gear and – finally – delegate some responsibilities, trust someone to help me. There’s only one person who can do it. I get out my phone, hoping he answers the call.
‘Hi, Carrie Bradshaw.’
‘Why Carrie?’
‘Because you’re a bitch with mad hair.’
‘I’m sorry about that. I’m ringing to apologize.’
