High Tide Page 15

  ‘I am sorry,’ Squirrel told her. ‘Truly. It must have been an awful shock.’

  Vanessa put the tray down on the smoked-glass coffee table that was adept at catching your shins if you weren’t careful where you walked.

  ‘I don’t think it’s really hit me yet. It all happened so quickly. And what with all the funeral arrangements, and people everywhere, it’s been a roller coaster. I suppose it will sink in now.’

  ‘You are going to be fine.’ Squirrel fixed her with one of her no-nonsense looks. ‘At least, I presume so. How did he leave you?’

  Vanessa laughed. Her mother was incorrigible. No doubt she would have been speculating all the way down the motorway. ‘You want to know how much I’m worth?’

  Squirrel looked affronted. ‘Not how much, no. It’s none of my business. But I want to know you’re secure.’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly. I’m seeing the solicitor on Monday. He’s coming here.’

  Squirrel made a face. ‘I hope that doesn’t mean bad news. It’s never good when solicitors come to you.’

  ‘Mummy, Spencer was difficult, I know that. But I don’t think he’d see me starve. I was his wife.’

  One eyebrow went up. ‘There might be skeletons.’

  Vanessa looked at the flames dancing in the fire. She needed to explain. She didn’t want her mother to think she was weak. Or useless. Or that Spencer had been a complete villain.

  ‘We didn’t have a bad life, you know. You must understand that. In a funny sort of way we rubbed along together. I wasn’t unhappy.’

  Squirrel pursed her lips.

  ‘I think you could have been happier. Much happier.’

  ‘We’ll never know, will we?’

  ‘I’m sorry if I withdrew. It was very painful for me to watch. That’s all. Because I wanted better for you …’ She cleared her throat. ‘I know about living with someone who doesn’t bring out the best in you.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  Vanessa hated talking about their rift. It had been painful and unsettling, but she’d been left with little choice. Or so she had felt at the time. It hadn’t been possible to have Squirrel and Spencer in her life, because they were both stubborn and strong and uncompromising. Which presumably made her weak.

  She felt herself crumpling. She’d held it together over the past few days, but now she felt exhausted. Tears welled up, as if she was six again, but she did nothing to stop them. She needed to cry. She allowed herself to cry. After all, her mother was here to comfort her. She let it all go, in one luxurious burst of emotion, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. And Squirrel jumped up and rushed over to hold her, pulling her into her embrace.

  ‘You cry,’ said Squirrel. ‘You cry, my darling.’

  Vanessa squeezed her tight, her infuriating, interfering, impossible mother, who understood her better than anyone, and who would be there for her longer than anyone.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Squirrel. ‘Honestly. It will be OK.’

  ‘I know,’ Vanessa sniffled into her mother’s décolletage. ‘It’s just sad, that’s all, that we never all worked out how to get along. Honestly, Mum. He was never … unkind. I suppose we didn’t have much in common, that’s all. We never argued. Not like—’

  Squirrel winced. Vanessa wiped the tears off her face. She needed to probe her mother. She wanted to know the truth. Now seemed the right time to ask.

  ‘Mum, what happened, exactly? With you and …’

  She never knew what to call him, the man she never saw. Dad, Daddy. My father. One day he had been there, the next he had gone, and she had never seen him again.

  Squirrel seemed to deflate in front of her. Squirrel, who never let anyone get the better of her, and who was scared of nothing.

  ‘Your father was absolutely the love of my life. And if we hadn’t had you girls, it would have been perfect. I could have been the woman he needed me to be. He craved attention, you see, and when you two came along I just didn’t have enough left for him. I had to make a choice. And I made the one I wanted to make, because you were more precious to me than anything or anyone. You needed me more. I knew he would find somebody else.’ Her normally vivacious face was etched with sadness. ‘And if he didn’t … he always had the drink to keep him company.’

  ‘Oh, Mum …’ Vanessa’s heart went out to her mother. In that short speech, Vanessa realised just how much Squirrel had sacrificed, and how difficult it must have been. ‘He was an alcoholic, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Of the most glamorous, disarmingly charming variety. The life and soul of the party, even if he was the only one at it.’

  ‘You poor thing.’

  ‘No. Because I’ve got you girls. And I had the best of him. Of course it was jolly sad he couldn’t carry on being the best he could be, but he was extraordinarily selfish.’

  ‘He doesn’t sound very nice.’

  ‘Oh darling – he was very nice. Wonderful, in fact. But …’

  Squirrel gave a hopeless shrug.

  ‘I always blamed myself when you married Spencer. I convinced myself you were looking for a father figure. Although less like your father he couldn’t have been. You found someone who needed nothing from you. Someone who was quite self-sufficient.’

  ‘Mum, that’s not really true.’

  ‘I can’t see what you saw in him.’

  ‘He was dynamic. He was a doer. He had amazing energy. He never took no for an answer. He knew what he wanted and he got it.’ Something dawned on Vanessa. ‘Like you, Mum. Actually.’

  Squirrel glared at her. ‘Never compare me to that man.’

  ‘No. No. I know. Sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  Her mother gave a wave of her hand.

  ‘What a pair we are. Both on our own now. I suspect it’s too late for me—’

  ‘Rubbish. Look at you. You’re amazing. You could still have anyone you wanted.’

  Squirrel played with the rings on her hand, and Vanessa realised she still wore her wedding band, that she’d never taken it off.

  ‘There was only ever one man I wanted,’ said Squirrel. ‘But this isn’t about me. It’s about you. And you have all the time in the world to find the right person.’ She grinned. ‘I’m not going to let you make another mistake.’

  Vanessa tutted. ‘Mum, Spencer wasn’t a mistake. And if I make any more, that’s my business.’

  ‘You must be careful. There’ll be plenty of gold-diggers out there.’

  Vanessa had to get up and walk away.

  ‘I’m going to make more tea.’

  She was trying not to laugh again. What on earth would her mother say if she knew about last night? She would be horrified. It was so tempting to tell her. It would distract her from the Spencer issue. Squirrel wouldn’t think it was funny, though. She’d probably have Nathan locked up.

  At the thought of him, Vanessa felt her stomach dip, as if she was in a plane hitting slight turbulence.

  She looked at her phone.

  No text.

  It had been four hours.

  She filled the kettle, frustrated. She knew the signal was bad in Pennfleet, but Nathan was local. He’d know where to get one if he wanted to reply. But then, what would he reply? She’d texted him to say thank you. Maybe he’d think that was that? Maybe he didn’t think he needed to respond?

  Of course he wouldn’t respond. He was probably just getting on with his life. She deleted his number, crumpled up the leaflet and put it in the bin.

  19

  Kate ended her day with her teeth gritty with dust, her hair matted, her skin grimy. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so grubby, but the recesses of the kitchen had been thick with grime. She had been in the far corner of cupboards, pulling out ancient tins and jars. Long-forgotten spices that had lost their flavour; packets of rice and pasta way past their best. She had decided to throw every food item away without even referring to its best-before date: there were three bin bags bulging with detritus. She would have to drive to the
recycling centre the next day to get rid of it.

  And all the time she thought about the letter she had found. In the back of her mind, she wondered if she might find the answer to who had written it elsewhere in the house, but she didn’t yet have the strength to investigate. Her mother’s handbag had been eviscerating enough. To enter her mother’s bedroom was going to take even more courage. That was why she was concentrating her efforts on the kitchen.

  At eight, she admitted defeat and ran a bath. Even the bathroom was a crucible of memories. She lay in the water, wondering how many times she had been in this tub as she grew up. She imagined her mum supporting her as a baby, swooshing her up and down in the water. She remembered locking herself in for hours as a teenager, experimenting with hair dye and leg shaving and eyebrow plucking. She remembered the smell of her father’s shaving foam lingering in the sink, flecks of his stubble on the porcelain. The Bromley lemon soap in the soap dish that her mother always got for Christmas and which lasted for months, because she only used it on special occasions and no one else touched it. The towels were the same as they had been for as long as she could remember – striped and rough and never quite big enough, in total contrast to the soft white bath-sheets she had in New York.

  She climbed out and dried herself and pulled on her nightdress. She felt utterly exhausted, even though by her body clock it was still only mid-afternoon. She went through her bedtime ritual – teeth, face cream – and was about to automatically take her sleeping tablet when she stopped.

  Now she was away from her routine, now she was in a different environment, she had the chance to analyse her habit. The words of the doctor came back to her. She had respected Dr Webster for years, and recalled her concern that she’d become dependent.

  And of course, it was ridiculous. When had she lost the ability to do something as simple as sleep? Her whole lifestyle seemed laughable, but surely not being able to sleep was more than laughable. It was worrying.

  It had been Carlos who suggested them, when she revealed she was sleeping badly. He’d recommended his mother’s doctor. And it had just been so easy to become reliant. Her life was so hectic and exhausting, and not to have to worry about whether she could get to sleep or not was yet another luxury she could afford.

  But here, back in her hometown, that luxury seemed like an affectation. She wasn’t a neurotic, or even particularly insomniac under normal circumstances. And her problems weren’t real ones. Her stress was manufactured, mostly by Carlos, ironically, who liked to make a drama out of a crisis where possible. It was something he had got from his high-octane family, particularly his mother and sisters, who loved a scene. The tiniest little hitch could become a source of major panic. Kate had witnessed their histrionics unfold with a fascinated horror on more than one occasion: Carlos wasn’t one to keep his private life to himself.

  She thought of Debbie and Scott, in their tiny house, with their four children, struggling to keep body and soul together in difficult economic circumstances – now that was stress. Yet they seemed happy enough with their lot. There hadn’t been any hint of complaint. They were stoic, and got on with it, without creating a fuss.

  How had she become so detached from reality? She was behaving like a princess. She didn’t need bloody sleeping tablets. She tossed the packet in one of the bin liners. If she couldn’t get a night’s sleep without pharmaceutical assistance, she really had lost the plot. She imagined what her mother would have to say. Joy would prescribe fresh air and a milky drink.

  She made herself a cup of cocoa and drank it at the kitchen table, re-reading the letter she had found, mulling over the identity of the man who had written it. The letter was written from the heart, clearly a warm heart. And suddenly, she remembered the phone call of the night before. Had that been him? The mysterious R. His tone had been familiar but tentative. It would certainly explain why he had hung up when she identified herself.

  It also meant he had no idea her mother was dead. Kate folded the letter back up. She would start to look for clues as to his identity tomorrow. She was too tired now. She was going to go to bed. Have her first night of sleep without a pill. She was determined she could do it.

  She climbed the stairs and came to a halt outside her mother’s room. She still hadn’t found the courage to go in. She wasn’t sure what she was scared of. She didn’t really associate her mother with her bedroom. The kitchen had been Joy’s domain, the place where Kate always imagined her. But a bedroom was personal, somehow. Possibly the place where a person was most vulnerable; where they allowed their fears and worries in.

  And possibly the place she might discover the identity of the letter writer.

  Cautious, she opened the door. She slid her hand onto the wall and switched on the light. The light bulb was frustratingly dim, throwing tenebrous shapes into the corners. For a moment she felt afraid, as if something was lurking in those shadows, as if the room might be harbouring a ghost, but Kate wasn’t really a fanciful type and her mother certainly wouldn’t come back to haunt her.

  The bed was neatly made, the green sateen eiderdown smooth and wrinkle-free. There was just one pillow in the centre, and two patchwork cushions neatly placed either side. Kate caught her breath. She had made the cushions at school, one for each parent one Christmas, when she was about eleven. They were hideous, made from mismatched scraps of fabric, with no thought for tone or colour. Yet here they still were, adorning the bed.

  In that moment, Kate hated herself. She knew she would never give something like those cushions house room, because they were ugly and badly made and didn’t go with anything.

  Her parents had loved them, because she had made them, and they had cherished them. Her wonderful mum and dad, who thought the world of her, and her ham-fisted Christmas offering.

  She lay on the bed, rested her head on her mother’s pillow, and pulled one of the cushions into her, hugging it tightly, remembering her excitement as they had each opened their present, and the genuine pleasure and appreciation on their faces. She was never going to experience that any more – the pleasure of giving to someone you loved and knew well, who would appreciate whatever you gave them no matter how awful it was.

  She rolled off the bed, scooped up the cushions, and took them into her own bedroom. She hugged them to her and, within minutes, fell asleep.

  She woke at half past one, heart pounding, mouth dry. She was absolutely wide awake. Her mind was racing, a million and one thoughts tearing about like greyhounds let loose on a track. Worry made her guts churn. How was she going to clear out the house in time? How on earth had she been so stupid as to hang up on Carlos? He was an impulsive man. He might well sack her. How could she have thought herself irreplaceable? She couldn’t afford to lose her job, not with her lifestyle. How was she going to juggle sorting things out in Pennfleet and placating Carlos? Should she call him now? Apologise? Start sending him through some ideas?

  And who was her mother’s mysterious letter from? What should she do about it? What did it mean?

  Panic rose up in her and she started to hyperventilate. Her palms were sweating. The more she tried to clear her mind, the more cluttered it became. She couldn’t focus or reason with herself. She lay for nearly two hours, checking her phone every two minutes. The pillow felt hot; even her hair hurt, her skin itched. She wanted to climb out of her body. It was torture. She tried some breathing exercises she’d been taught in yoga, but they were useless. Anxieties competed with each other in her brain, jostling for pole position. She couldn’t work out which was her biggest problem, or how to solve any of them. They accumulated and multiplied, taunting her. You thought you were so clever, they seemed to say. But we’re going to get you.

  In the end, she went downstairs, dug about in the bin, found her sleeping pills and, in a state of panic that one wouldn’t be enough, took two.

  Sweet oblivion.

  20

  Daisy was meeting Oscar at his house before they went out for the evening. She was ner
vous, but as soon as she stepped inside she felt OK.

  It was funny, she thought, how you could feel at home straight away in some people’s houses, but not in others. Some reached out and hugged you and drew you in, and Oscar’s was one of them.

  There was an energy in it, a joy, that she found comforting. It wasn’t even a particularly nice house. It was an ordinary semi on the outskirts of town that looked like nothing from the outside: UPVC windows and pebbledash, like all the others on the road. But inside, it was a riot of colour and noise and laughter: a swirl of sensory chaos, ruled over by Oscar’s mother Alexa.

  As Daisy looked further she realised there was order underneath the chaos. There was just so much of everything. Books galore – towering piles of them. Pictures, paintings, postcards, everywhere, in a random display that somehow looked thought-through. Candles, lanterns, ornaments on every shelf and surface. It even smelled wonderful, of bread baking, a citrusy scented candle, wood-smoke from the fire, Alexa’s perfume, mysterious and exotic. It was an Aladdin’s cave, the walls painted deep coral, the curtains floor-length gold brocade with tasselled tie-backs, the wooden floorboards painted in black and white stripes. It was dramatic and bold and theatrical.

  Oscar was half embarrassed, half proud of his home. He had an easy relationship with his younger siblings – three of them, the youngest only six – and was obviously protective of his mum, whom he towered over.

  ‘This is my mum,’ he told Daisy. ‘Alexa. Mum, this is Daisy.’