‘I’m so pleased he’s met you, Hilary,’ I said.
She said nothing but nodded, still focusing on the napkin. Then she turned to me, took my hand briefly in hers and gave it a squeeze. I managed a wobbly smile, which she returned with one as equally full of emotion, and it struck me again how useful some tissues at the table might have proved for everyone.
‘Right,’ said Dad, returning, pulling out his chair and sitting down. ‘Have we ordered?’
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘We haven’t managed to catch the waiter’s eye. We’ve been talking about baking.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said beaming. ‘You must try one of my custard slices, darling. Hilary says she’s never tasted anything quite like them. Isn’t that right?’ He looked at her and winked.
She laughed. ‘You are such a silly thing,’ she said.
He took her hand and then reached across the table for mine. ‘A silly, happy thing,’ he said. ‘And that’s what counts.’
* * *
After our teas and coffees, I hugged Hilary goodbye and then, rather than bid her farewell at the table, Dad walked her to the door of the pub. It was several minutes before he returned and sat down opposite me.
He looked at me and smiled, somewhat sadly, I thought. I returned the smile but said nothing.
Eventually he spoke. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ he said.
I reached across the table and took his hand. ‘If you’re apologising for not telling me sooner, or for that quite pitiful charade earlier this evening, I shall accept that. But if you’re apologising in any way for Hilary, please don’t. She’s lovely.’
His eyes fell upon our hands and he nodded.
‘I wanted you to meet her a good while ago,’ he said quietly. ‘But I didn’t know how to do it. I didn’t want to place you, or Hilary, under any pressure. I thought it might be better for you to meet her as if by chance, without any labels being hung around her neck and without you feeling you had to like her or approve of anything. I had arranged to bump into her on a walk after one of our lunches a couple of months ago. But I lost track of time and we missed her.’ He looked up at me. ‘In my defence,’ he said, ‘Hilary favoured the bumping-into approach also.’
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ He looked at me uncertainly and I smiled. ‘I like her very much,’ I said. ‘Very much. You seem to be birds of a feather. And you know that I just want whatever makes you happy.’
He sighed. ‘I was in a bit of a muddle for a while, darling,’ he said. ‘I love your mother utterly and that will never change. But Hilary did confuse things. She confused me.’ He smiled sadly. ‘At one point, I actually thought I wanted her to go away, you know. It felt like she was causing trouble, even though she hadn’t done anything except exist. It was quite a jolt. I hadn’t expected to feel those things again.’ He returned his gaze to the table. ‘It’s all been weighing rather heavily,’ he patted his chest, ‘in here. I really needed to talk about it all. But who to discuss it with?’
I tutted. ‘Well, why not me?’
He raised his eyes and met mine. ‘I didn’t want to upset you. Am I upsetting you now? You must tell me if I am.’
‘Upsetting me?’ I said exasperatedly. ‘I’m delighted you have found someone you want to spend your time with, to confide in, to laugh with. And Mum…’ I paused for a moment, steadying my voice and blinking back a tear, ‘and Mum would be delighted too. I know that beyond a shadow of a doubt.’
His eyes filled with tears and I allowed my own to fall. ‘I know that. I reached that same conclusion myself. Eventually.’
‘Well, in that case,’ I laughed and wiped my cheek, ‘what on earth was all this nonsense about?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, now laughing too. ‘I’m an absolute ninny, aren’t I?’
I smiled. ‘Well, I can think of one or two other words, but ninny will do,’ I said.
‘Dear me.’ He extracted a handkerchief from the pocket of his chinos, blew his nose and then pointed at my empty glass. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘are you for another of those watery wine things, or for your bed?’
‘Not quite for my bed,’ I said, checking my watch. ‘I know I become immediately geriatric in your company, but it is a little bit early, even so. However,’ I smiled, noticing him stifle a yawn, ‘I am rather keen to give that enormous bath of mine a whirl. So I think I’ll head up if that’s OK?’
‘That’s fine, darling,’ he said. ‘Being genuinely geriatric, I am more than happy to retire.’ He rose to his feet and together we walked slowly to the door. ‘I’m so very blessed to have you, Alice,’ he said, as I linked his arm and we stepped out onto the pavement. ‘You are your mother’s daughter, you know.’
Unwilling to risk speech, I replied instead with a squeeze of his arm and a kiss on his cheek, and then we headed back across the road to our hotel.
Chapter 35
Upon reaching my room, I sat on the bed, kicked off my shoes and flopped backwards; closing my eyes and reflecting on the day. It had, I decided, been a good one and my overwhelming conviction was that both Dad and I would go away from this weekend with a sense of relief regarding secrets and feelings shared and aired.
Resisting a significant urge to remain horizontal, I stood up and went into the ensuite. After taking a moment to admire the large bath, complete with a side tap designed to permit unhindered, full-length lounging, I began to run a bath.
Just a few minutes later, and with the tap still running, I was submerged up to my chin, letting the warm water and bubbles envelop me. I then extended an arm, turned off the tap and added complete silence to my current list of little luxuries. Holding my breath, I slid completely under the water, enjoying the sensation of weightlessness afforded by the extra deep tub.
I came up a moment later, to the somewhat disturbing sound of Sophie shouting, ‘Answer the phone! Answer the phone!’, the ringtone which she had popped onto my phone the evening before.
I grabbed the nearest towel, dried my hands and reached across to my phone, which I had placed on the tiled surround of the sink. I pressed accept just as it stopped ringing. Unknown caller: missed call appeared onscreen.
I tutted at the thought of my luxurious silence being shattered by an annoying cold call, placed the phone back down by the sink, and sank once more into the bubbles.
Moments later, Sophie was again insisting, at considerable volume, that I answer the phone. I sat up, dried my hands and picked it up. There was again no caller ID but I answered nevertheless. ‘Hello?’ I said, not bothering to keep the irritation out of my voice. There was no reply. ‘Hello?’ I repeated, increasingly annoyed, but unsurprised, by the initial silence of a marketing call. I waited for the inevitable click, which would herald the return of the salesperson to the automatically generated call. However, no click came. Instead, I thought I heard an intake of breath, a gasp. ‘Hello?’ I said, a little less assertively. ‘Can you hear me?’
Without warning, three beeps signalled the end of the call.
I put down the phone for a second time and tried to regain my earlier sense of relaxation and calm. But despite my attempts to reason away the call as one of those poor connections, in which only one party is able to hear anything, I just couldn’t. It had unnerved me and no amount of telling myself not to be so melodramatic could change that. I lay amongst the bubbles, no longer enjoying them and wondering whether I should simply get out, get dressed and go and read Jane Eyre in the cosy snug, next door to the main lounge.
I hung up, switched my phone to vibrate and climbed out of the ba
th.
Ten minutes later, I was pulling the duvet up around my chin and just wondering whether to watch telly or read when I was disturbed by the vibration of my phone on the small chest of drawers next to me. I picked up the phone as the screen lit up, revealing that while getting ready for bed I had a text from Stephen and also a missed call. The notification unknown caller – missed call and voicemail, leapt out at me.
I went immediately to voicemail and played the seven-second message. I was disturbed, but not entirely surprised, by the silence. I strained to hear anything but without success.
I clicked on Stephen’s text.
Sorry I missed call – driving. Have thought about calling you a few times but haven’t wanted to crash your time with your Dad. Busy day here – lots of viewings. One offer and a rival bid expected. Tired and up early tomorrow, so bed now. Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. Will aim to be with you at 5pm. I’ve booked us a table for dinner – 7.30, hope that’s ok. S x
Still distracted, I returned to my voicemails and twice more played the anonymous message. This time, I thought I could perhaps hear a distant door closing but, frustrated by both the calls and my inability to glean anything of use from the voicemail, I deleted it. Now wide awake, I began, without thinking, to work my way down my extensive list of historic voicemails, deleting as I went. It was only when I had binned at least two screens’ worth of messages, that I paused, my mind suddenly engaging as the notification of Jon’s week-old, unplayed voicemail reached the top of the list.
I sighed, closed my eyes and leaned back against the headboard of the bed. There was no internal debate. I knew Miriam was right; I had to listen to what he had to say. I just needed a moment or two to brace myself for it, whilst being careful not to give myself long enough to worry about content or consequences.
I opened my eyes, touched “play” and pressed the phone to my ear.
‘Hello, Alice, it’s Jon.’ His tone was, I thought, clipped. I re-closed my eyes. ‘I know you have Stephen there. I was going to leave this call until tomorrow but felt I should make it now. I want to apologise to you for my behaviour at the play this evening.’ There was a pause. ‘For more than that. I want to apologise for the things I’ve said and done which have hurt your feelings. Your friendship could not be more important to me. I have assumed you know that, which isn’t fair. I should have just told you. I’d really like to meet for a drink and we can either talk about this, or not talk about this, whatever is best for you. I’ll leave it to you to think about it and let me know if a drink is something you’d want to do. Bye.’
I allowed my hand, still holding the phone, to slide down the side of my face and come to rest on my chest and I thought about Jon. I felt ashamed at my persistent, petulant refusal to listen to what he had had to say – and at my total failure to view his behaviour not only in the context of his current situation, but also in the context of our long friendship.
I opened my eyes and looked at the phone. I didn’t trust myself to have a conversation with him and, besides, I guessed he would be with Suzanna. But I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep unless I acknowledged his message. Without further pause for thought, I began to text.
I have only just played your voicemail. I hadn’t wanted to play it in case you were going to tell me some things about myself, probably true, which I didn’t want to hear. I’m sorry. I know there’s a lot going on for you at the moment and I don’t think I at all appreciated the enormity of that. I’d really like to meet up. Don’t know if I can manage to talk about any of the important things and make any sense, but I don’t think that matters. It would just be really good to see you. I’m in the Cotswolds with Dad – back tomorrow afternoon. Dad has a lovely girlfriend – I’m not sure that’s the right word. He’s baking a lot and I’ve had some weird phone calls. I’ll call you tomorrow if that’s OK. If you’re busy, don’t worry, I’ll catch you in the week x
I pressed send without review, threw the phone down on the bed, switched off the light and, for the third time that evening, cursed my lack of tissues.
Chapter 36
I woke at 7am and immediately reached for my phone. There was a text from Jon. It had been sent just fifteen minutes after my own the previous evening and I was surprised at how quickly I must have fallen asleep. I read it three or four times, enjoying the increased sense of relief each re-reading brought.
Hi, it was great to get this. Had considered texting when I didn’t hear from you but you weren’t alone in your fear re possible responses. Really good news about your dad, I’m happy for him. And no, I’m not sure girlfriend is the right word either but I can’t immediately think of an alternative. Also interested in the baking and the phone calls. Are you saying there is some connection between the two? I’m around tomorrow. If I miss your call, I will call you back. Looking forward to a drink. And you’re right – it doesn’t matter if you don’t make sense, I’m used to it.
I smiled, put down my phone and headed for the shower, with a plan to then call Dad’s room and bully him into an earlier breakfast.
Heavy rain beat down upon the grey paving of the inner courtyard visible from our breakfast table, leading us to discount the idea of a further walk before leaving. And so, after a leisurely breakfast, which was marked by levels of laughter and relaxation considerably higher than the day before, we gathered our things, checked-out and made our way back to Bristol.
Our conversation on the way home focused more on the weeks to come, than the weekend just gone, with Dad clearly revelling in his new-found freedom to talk about Hilary and what they would be up to. Not that they had any plans to cruise the Med, dine out in Paris or punt along a Venetian canal. But they had scheduled a day trip to Bradford-on-Avon, a pub supper, an evening at the theatre and, of course, lots of baking.
On arrival in Redland, he stopped just long enough for a cup of tea and a piece of cake, before heading home to Chippenham. Hilary was due back late afternoon and he explained that he wanted to have completed another batch of Chelsea buns for her consideration by the time she arrived. I suggested it might be prudent to have a sneaky packet from Tesco’s to hand, in the unlikely event that his own were a total and utter inedible disaster, in response to which he laughed loudly and ruffled my hair.
I waved him off just after one o’clock, deciding to unpack, load the washing machine and tidy up a little, before sitting down to call Jon. That was something which, despite our recent uplifting exchange of texts, I still felt rather nervous about.
When I found myself plumping the pillows in the spare bedroom, I realised that I had reached the point of disgraceful procrastination and must now simply make the call.
I went and sat at the kitchen table, took my phone from my pocket and dialled, experiencing a mixture of disappointment and relief when, after half a dozen rings, Jon’s mobile went to voicemail. I cleared my throat, whilst he asked me to leave a message.
‘Hi Jon, it’s Alice. I’m back from the Cotswolds and around now until five-ish. I was just calling to arrange going out after work one evening. I’m free this week, any evening except Friday, I think – I’m that popular. So just let me know. OK, well, bye.’ I hung up, suddenly feeling oddly flat and at a loss as to how to pass the time until Stephen arrived.
I had just decided to go and tackle some long overdue weeding, when the sound of a bugle heralded the arrival of a text. It was from Jon.
In Waitrose. Nearly done. Just give me half an hour.
I looked at my watch; he would be calling about two. Or did he mean I should call him at two? Either way, I had half an hour. I went outside, fetched a trowel and small fork from the shed and began to attack the borders.
At 1.55pm, frustrat
ed by the ongoing, low-level anxiety which I was still undeniably experiencing, I came inside with the intention of washing my hands, putting on the kettle and calling Jon for a second time. I had just begun the process by turning on the tap, when the doorbell rang, causing me to start slightly. I gave my hands an inadequate rinse, drying them on my jeans and turning to look at the kitchen clock; it was a minute off 2pm. I took out my phone and checked Jon’s text. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might mean he would be coming round in half an hour but I supposed it could be him. I sighed in dismay at my blackened nails, damp, mud-covered jeans and make-up free complexion, before taking a deep breath and walking from the kitchen towards the front door. It would probably, I reasoned, just be Sim, the sports-mad eleven year-old from next door, wanting one of her tennis/foot/cricket balls back.
But it wasn’t Sim.
I opened the door to a man, visible only from the shoulders down, his face hidden behind a large cream and peach bouquet of roses, germinis and lilies. I gasped, surprised but delighted by the gesture. I guessed that it was Jon, even before I noticed the Waitrose care label, as he extended the huge bouquet towards me.
Instead of taking the flowers from him, I pushed his arm gently to one side, making his face visible and his neck accessible; I then experienced last-minute shock and hesitation, as I flung my arms around him.
‘Well, that certainly wins welcome-of-the-week,’ said Stephen, laughing.
‘It’s you,’ I gasped, clinging to him and feeling as if I would crumple and collapse without his support.