Lucy Gordon: And the Bride Wore Red

London was eight hours behind Beijing, which meant that back there it was the early hours of the morning, but she knew Norah would be ready, having set her alarm to be sure.

Yes, there she was, sitting up in bed, smiling and waving at the camera on top of her computer screen. Olivia waved back.

Norah was an old lady, a great-aunt rather than an aunt, but her eyes were as bright as they’d been her youth, and her vitality was undimmed. Olivia had always been close to her, turning to her wisdom and kindness as a refuge from the self-centred antics of the rest of her family.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said into the microphone. ‘There was a bit of a kerfuffle at school today.’

She outlined the events of the afternoon, making light of them.

‘And the doctor said you were all right?’

‘He says I’m fine. I’ll have an early night and be fit as a fiddle.’

‘Are you going out with anyone?’

‘You asked me that last night, and the night before. Honestly, Auntie, it’s all you ever think of.’

‘So I should hope. You’re a pretty girl. You ought to be having a good time.’

‘I’m having a wonderful time. And I do have dates. I just don’t want to get serious. Now, tell me about yourself. Are you getting enough sleep?’

There was more in the query than just a desire to change the subject. Norah was in her seventies, and the only thing that had made Olivia hesitate about coming to China was the fear of possibly not seeing her again. But Norah had assured her that she was in the best of health and had urged her to go.

‘Don’t you dare turn down your chance because of me,’ she’d insisted.

‘I’m just trying to be sensible,’ Olivia had protested mildly.

‘ Sensible? You’ve got the rest of your life for that sort of nonsense. Get out there, do things you’ve never done before, and forget that man who didn’t deserve you anyway.’

Norah could never forgive the man who’d broken Olivia’s heart.

‘I’m sleeping fine,’ Norah said now. ‘I spent yesterday evening with your mother, listening to her complaining about her latest. That sent me right off to sleep.’

‘I thought Guy was her ideal lover.’

‘Not Guy, Freddy. She’s finished with Guy, or he finished with her, one of the two. I can’t keep up.’

Olivia sighed wryly. ‘I’ll call her and commiserate.’

‘Not too much or you’ll make her worse,’ Norah said at once. ‘She’s a silly woman. I’ve always said so. Mind you, it’s not all her fault. Her own mother has a lot to answer for. Fancy giving her a stupid name like Melisande! She was bound to see herself as a romantic heroine.’

‘You mean,’ Olivia said, ‘that if Mum had been called something dull and sensible she wouldn’t have eloped?’

‘Probably not, although I think she’d have been self-centred whatever she was called. She’s never thought of anyone but herself. She’s certainly never thought of you, any more than your father has. Heaven alone knows what he’s doing now, although I did hear a rumour that he’s got some girl pregnant.’

‘Again?’

‘Yes, and he’s going about preening as though he’s the first man who’s ever managed it. Forget him. The great fool isn’t worth bothering with.’

Thus she dismissed her nephew-with some justice, as Olivia had to admit.

They chatted for a while longer before bidding each other an affectionate goodnight. Olivia delayed just long enough to make herself a basic meal, then fell thankfully into bed, ready to fall asleep at once.

Instead she lay awake, too restless for sleep. Mysteriously, Dr Mitchell had found his way into her thoughts, and she remembered him saying, Other people have to pick up the pieces, and often it is they who get hurt.

He’d given her a look full of wry kindness, as if guessing that she was often the person who had to come to the rescue-which was shrewd of him, she realised, because he’d been right.

As far back as she could remember she’d been the rock of stability in her family. Her parents’ marriage had been a disaster. They’d married young in a fever of romance, had quickly been disillusioned by prosaic reality and had headed for divorce. Since then her mother had remarried and divorced again before settling for lovers. Her father had moved straight onto the lovers.

She herself had been passed from pillar to post, depending on whichever of them had felt she could be most useful. They had lavished noisy affection on her without ever managing to be convincing. Their birthday and Christmas gifts had been expensive, but she’d realised early on that they were aimed at scoring points off each other.

‘Let’s see what your father thinks of that,’ her mother had said, proudly revealing a state-of-the-art, top-of-the-range, laptop. But she’d been too busy to come and see Olivia in the school play, which would have meant far more.

The person who’d always come to school functions was Norah, her father’s aunt. When both her parents had been busy, Olivia had gone to Norah for long visits and found that here was someone she could talk to. Norah had encouraged her to say what she was thinking. She would argue, forcing the girl to define her ideas then enlarge on them, until Olivia had begun to realise that her own thoughts were actually worth discussing-something she’d never discovered with her parents, who could talk only about themselves.

There’d always been a bedroom for her in Norah’s home, and when she’d turned sixteen she’d moved into it full-time.

‘How did that pair of adolescents you call parents react to the idea?’ Norah demanded.

‘I’m not sure they quite realise that I’ve gone,’ Olivia said. ‘He thinks I’m with her, she thinks I’m with him. Oh, what do they matter?’

It was possible to cope with her parents’ selfish indifference because Norah’s love was there like a rock. Even so, it was painful to discover yet again how little they really cared about her.

Eventually her mother asked, ‘Will you be all right with Norah? She’s a bit-you know-’she’d lowered her voice as though describing some great crime ‘- fuddy-duddy .’

It crossed Olivia’s mind that ‘fuddy-duddy’ might be a welcome quality in a parent, but she said nothing. She’d learned discretion at an early age. She assured her mother that she would be fine, and the subject was allowed to die.

Before leaving, Melisande had one final request.

‘Would you mind not calling me Mum when there are people around? It sounds so middle-aged, and I’m only thirty-one.’

Olivia frowned. ‘Thirty-three, surely? Because I was born when-’

‘Oh, darling, must you be so literal? I only look thirty-one. In fact, I’ve been told I look twenty-five. Surely you understand about artistic licence?’

‘Of course,’ Olivia agreed with a touch of bitterness that passed her mother by. ‘And if I start claiming you as my mother it spoils the effect.’

‘Exactly!’ Melisande beamed, entirely missing the irony in her daughter’s voice. ‘You can call me Melly if you like.’

‘Gosh, thanks, Mum.’

Her mother gave her a sharp look but didn’t make the mistake of replying.

That evening, she told Norah, who was disgusted.

‘Fuddy-duddy! She means I don’t live my life at the mercy of every wind that blows.’

‘She just thinks you know nothing about love,’ Olivia pointed out.

When Norah didn’t answer, she persisted, ‘But she’s wrong, isn’t she? There’s someone you never talk about.’

That was how she’d first heard about Edward, who’d died so long ago that nobody else remembered him, or the volcano he’d caused in the life of the girl who’d loved him. Norah told her only a little that night, but more later on, as Olivia grew old enough to understand.