‘No, nothing. Don’t worry. Let’s walk.’
Rose and Lola had the kind of uniquely intimate relationship that exists between a single mother and daughter. It elicits a different kind of dependency whereby each needs the other equally, although in very different ways. Theirs was a living situation that had seen all sorts of iterations, from a three-bedroom home in Highgate where they had home-cooked family dinners every night, to a studio flat in Tufnell Park that may or may not have also been home to a family of mice (Lola used to tell Rose fairies lived inside the walls).
It wasn’t until Rose turned eighteen that Lola offered up any information about Rose’s father. She had given up asking long before then, as her mother would only ever repeatedly refuse and make references to Gilmore Girls. Lola met Richard on a beach in India when she was twenty. She had gone backpacking with a group of school friends; he had gone with some friends from university. The two groups collided one evening at a shack in Goa that was famous for its sunsets. She was at the bar, waiting to order another round of Kingfisher beers, when a tall man with long hair down to his shoulders sidled up next to her. She was just about to move away in anticipation of a cheesy pick-up line when he started talking about turtles. They were his favourite animal. He had come to Goa primarily to see them nesting on the beach. And had she seen any yet?
Lola was pregnant two months later. For a while, they played happy families quite convincingly.
But by the time Rose was six, he was gone. Lola picked her up from school and explained that daddy had decided to go away for a bit. Rose asked when he was coming home every day for the next two years until someone at school mentioned the word ‘divorce’ and Lola was forced to explain to her inquisitive daughter that her father was, in all likelihood, never coming back.
Richard’s absence only strengthened the connection between Lola and Rose. Even now, one of them could usually sense when something was wrong with the other. Today, though, Lola didn’t seem to pick up on Rose’s cues. Or if she did, she didn’t say anything about it, which, on this occasion, was a relief. Because if Lola did ask Rose what was wrong, she would cry without any reasonable explanation or understanding as to why. All she knew was that the bleeding had stopped for now, as had the pain, and it would be easiest to write both off as some sort of menstrual quirk.
They walked for two hours, ambling through sunlight and shade as they crossed through the Heath’s wooded areas. Lola made the odd remark about everyone they passed on their way.
‘That person looks a bit like my mother,’ Lola said, pointing to an older woman wearing oval sunglasses underneath a large wide-brimmed hat. She was dressed head to toe in black. Lola hated her own mother; they’d been estranged since the divorce. Rose had always suspected it was one of the reasons why Lola had been so devoted to her.
‘Little bit,’ she replied.
‘Very gaunt face. Like someone who had all the life sucked out of their cheeks when they were young.’
‘I’d quite like someone to suck the life out of my cheeks.’
‘Oh, don’t be daft, Bitsy.’
‘I have a moon face.’
‘You’re beautiful. Don’t you dare.’
A loud ping went off from somewhere inside Lola’s trousers, prompting her body to jolt forwards comically far.
‘Oh, bugger,’ she said, surveying her phone.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘When is forty-eight hours?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t judge me, Bitsy. From Wednesday: when is forty-eight hours?’
Rose sighed. ‘Friday.’
‘Shit.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘No, nothing, it just means I have to watch a film I rented in the next six hours.’
Rose let out a gentle laugh. ‘Which film?’
‘Superbad.’
Lola had several eccentricities, though she hated it whenever someone described them as that. With an endless canon of nonsensical epithets and a peculiar penchant for bro comedies, she was always good at distracting Rose, whether it was with stories about people she despised for no apparent reason, or consistently getting her idioms mixed up (‘remember, Rose, it takes two to toss’ etc.). Then there were tales of her latest hobbies, all of which would become obsessions for several months at a time. A few years ago, Lola went through an axe-throwing phase, suggested by a man in her gym. Then there was the salsa-dancing phase, a different man from the same gym. And more recently, a duck-racing phase. Rose wasn’t sure who suggested that one.
Today’s phase was life drawing.
‘This lovely woman in my building told me about it and, honestly, it is the best three hours you’ll ever have,’ Lola said.
Obviously Rose had done plenty of life drawing at art college; it had never interested her. She didn’t have the patience for drawing anything, least of all a stranger’s penis. A woman wouldn’t have been quite so bad, but the life models were always men. The thought of her mother doing this made her shudder.
‘The model we had this morning was very handsome,’ Lola added.
‘How old was he?’
‘I didn’t ask, actually. But I did find out that he’s currently studying for a master’s in physiotherapy at UCL. I told him I had a daughter.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I’m probably too old to go out with him. But you—’
‘Jesus, Mum.’ She started to picture Lola chatting away to this poor naked man about his degree and her single daughter.
‘There was another one I thought of for you, actually,’ Lola continued. ‘Although it was rather strange because all the other women in the class were wearing wedding paraphernalia and I was the only one who wasn’t.’
‘It was a hen do?’
‘Yes. Anyway, this darling girl, Sophie, was getting married and her maid of honour had arranged this life drawing class for the hen. She must have been about your age. The model was a friend of theirs. Jack, I think was his name. He looked a bit like that famous singer, Milo … what is it. Twix? Wax? Anyway, apparently Sophie is a huge fan, which was why they booked him …’
Even if Rose wanted to keep listening, she couldn’t. The sound of his name had switched something off in her brain. All she could hear was the birds and the sound of them splashing down into the ponds that were now stretched out on either side. She turned to her left to look at them while Lola continued talking. One by one, they dived head-first into the water, their wings pulled right back so as to streamline their slim bodies. They went under only briefly, subsumed by the darkness of the water momentarily before emerging triumphantly, flying up, up, up. Then they were back, soaring towards clouds with the enthusiasm of newborn children.
