Harriet Evans - Love Always

‘Like what?’ she asks. ‘It’s al being properly catalogued, Natasha. There are a lot of items that need to be valued, and Guy’s coming down soon to do it . . .’

‘No, I don’t mean it like that—’

‘With a sinking feeling, I wonder what Mum’s been saying to her. ‘Just interesting things about the family, you know. Photos and al that.’

‘Oh.’ Louisa unbends a little. ‘Wel , there are a couple of things. Let me think. Oh – yes! I’ve found some old clothes of Miranda’s. Al just bundled up in a cupboard.’

I sit down on the sofa, hugging a cushion against my body. ‘How do you know they’re Miranda’s? I mean, Mum’s?’

‘Wel , I remember she bought them with the money her godmother sent her. She’d never real y been a clothes horse before, and suddenly she started turning up for dinner in these absolutely amazing dresses and things. And they’re al there, just stuffed into a bag and hidden in the back of a cupboard. I’d forgotten al about them! And there’s an hilari ous picture of Julius and Octavia I found in a kitchen drawer, when they were children down on the beach, covered in sand and wearing buckets on their heads. Ever so funny.’ Louisa laughs heartily, and leaves a pause for me to laugh heartily too which I do, even though my heart is beating so fast it’s painful.

‘Oh, that’s funny,’ I say unconvincingly. ‘Anything else?’

‘No,’ says Louisa. ‘Franty, your grandmother, she was a very organised woman. There’s hardly anything left, real y. I think she got rid of a lot . . .

a lot of things.’

I think back to my room at Summercove, which used to be my mother’s and Cecily’s, and know Louisa is right. When I think about it, it is rather odd. There is nothing in the wardrobe now – I know it by heart – apart from an old backgammon set, some old books, and a moth-eaten fur that Granny never wore. Certainly no diary. And yet somehow this makes me even more convinced she must have kept the rest of it somewhere. Out of sight. I take a deep breath.

‘What about the studio? I went in, just before I left.’

‘Wel , it is strange, having it open again, being able to go in,’ Louisa says. ‘I was never al owed to before. But no,’ she says, ‘nothing there real y either. So, you’re OK then?’ She changes the subject. ‘Al al right? I was worried about you, Natasha dear.’

When I was thirteen, I was running back towards the house from the beach and my newly long legs betrayed me, and I fel over, dislocating my shoulder in the process. The pain was excruciating, but Louisa took me to the hospital as I wailed and screamed loudly, al pretence at maturity abandoned. She waited with me for a doctor for what seemed like hours, and fed me sweets and read out extracts from her new Jil y Cooper novel to keep me entertained. I’m sure she’s forgotten it, but I never have. I don’t want her to worry about me, but it’s comforting to know she cares. Like I say, she is a comforting person, and I feel real y guilty about how mean I’ve been about her, these last few days.

‘Actual y – Oli and I have split up. Permanently,’ I say. ‘You and Oli? What?’ Louisa makes a querying sound at the back of her throat, as if she doesn’t understand. ‘When?’

‘Earlier today.’ It seems longer ago than that, this morning. Like a morning from a week ago, a year ago.

‘Oh, Natasha,’ Louisa says, her voice sad. ‘Oh, that’s awful.’

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Real y, it is. I mean, it’s not, but – you know.’

‘My dear. Where are you, at home?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘On your own?’

‘Yes,’ I say again. ‘That’s not very good. Do you want – should I get Octavia to come round? Keep you company? She’s only in Marylebone, you know.’

Yes, I want to say. Do send Octavia round. Her cheery face and happy modes of passing the time are just what I need. ‘Oh – that’s very kind, but don’t worry. I’m better off on my own.’ This is probably true. I’m on my own, for the first time in years. ‘I need some time by myself.’

‘Have you told your mother, or Jay, or anyone?’

‘No, actual y,’ I say. ‘Er – you’re the first person. Sorry, I didn’t mean it to be that way. I was real y just ringing to find out how Arvind is and – I don’t want to bother you with it al .’

‘It’s not a bother,’ she says. ‘Darling, it’s no bother at al . You poor thing.’ I have to remind myself that Louisa’s not a fusser, though she so often acts like one. I wish again that I’d known her when she was eighteen, before she became this person who does things for other people al the time, when she was the pretty girl in Cecily’s diary with a new lipstick and a scholarship to Cambridge, dreadful y ambitious and clever. And it occurs to me now that I’ve never heard her mention Cambridge or university or anything like that. Did she not go in the end? Where did she go, that girl?

She’s always pretended she loved her Tunbridge Wel s life. What if she didn’t? What if that wasn’t the life she’d expected for herself?

‘Look,’ she says, breaking into my thoughts. ‘Your grand-father’s just about to go to sleep, and he’s going into the home on Monday. I want him as rested as possible before then, it’s going to be strange at first, I’m sure.’

‘It is,’ I say. ‘I mean, I’d love to stay down here longer, but you know, I can’t. I’ve been here for two weeks, and he can’t stay here on his own, it is for the best,’ Louisa says, al in a rush. ‘Frank needs me back at home, too, I don’t like being away from him for too long either.’

I can’t believe she feels guilty about it. ‘Louisa, you’ve been amazing,’ I say, and it’s true. ‘Please! What are you talking about?’

‘Not everyone feels that way,’ she says. ‘I’ve been accused of – wel , it doesn’t matter.’

‘Do you mean Mum?’ I say reluctantly, though this could easily apply to me, too.

‘I’m afraid I do,’ Louisa’s voice hardens. I wish I’d never asked. ‘I suppose there’s no need to keep up a pretence at civility, now your grandmother’s dead. She’s made that quite clear, anyway.’

‘Oh, I’m sure she doesn’t mean it,’ I say desperately. ‘She’s very grateful, I’m sure.’

‘Natasha –’ she starts. ‘Your mother—’

‘Yes?’ I say.

‘Wel . . . she’s a complicated person. OK?’

‘I know that,’ I say careful y. ‘She always has been.’

‘Yes, but—’ She stops. ‘Never mind. There’s no point.’ Tel Octavia that, I want to say. I know what you’re getting at. It’s too late.

‘Wel , I’m very grateful to you, anyway,’ I say instead. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without you.’

‘It’s my pleasure,’ Louisa says simply. ‘I’d have done anything for Franty. She knew that. I loved her very much.’

After I’ve said goodbye to Louisa I feel reassured somehow. At the very least, Arvind is al right. My mother is unpredictable, and I never know how she’s going to react to certain situations. It’s true, often those situations were connected with Summercove or the people there. When we were going, when we were leaving, who was going to be there, how long she’d stay. It’s only now I remember that I said I’d go round for supper with her next week. I don’t quite know what I’l say to her when I see her. About anything, real y.

I make some tea, and I get into bed. It’s cold. I hug the same cushion against me for warmth and comfort, and I take out a pen and write a list.

1. Get a solicitor? – Ask Cathy. File for divorce??

2. Flat. Mortgage? Move out?

3. Trade fair. x3 applications to diff. ones by end of week.