The Daughter-in-Law, page 5
Betty inched herself off Hope’s knee and took the parcel with a shy grin before she went straight back to Hope. ‘Gwanny. Look.’ Hope encouraged her to rip off the paper while Mary looked on with an odd expression. Hurt at being rebuffed? Relief that she didn’t have to do more? Edie would never know. Instead, she watched the interaction between the three of them, struck by how much trust Betty had in Hope.
‘Wow! Look at these! But perhaps save them till you’re a bit older,’ said Hope, passing the present to Edie.
Edie saw it was a jewellery-making set, a see-through plastic box full of gaudy plastic beads. Age 4 upwards read the label. Hope was right – again – they were too old for Betty. She tucked them behind a cushion, hoping Betty would forget them now Hope was distracting her from their disappearance by re-reading the board book.
‘I remembered how you loved making things when you were a child,’ Mary said to Edie, who was pouring coffee while Paul sliced up the cakes.
Edie was surprised that her mother recalled anything much about her childhood. She remembered it as long months in boarding school while her parents lived it up abroad. When her friends went home for half terms, she either stayed in school or went to her aunt’s. Her father’s sister, Emma, was married but had no children and provided a warm, safe haven for her and Noel, her brother, but it was never the same as having an actual parent to love them. When she did fly out, wearing a luggage label and accompanied by a stewardess, to Dubai, Nigeria or Singapore, her relationship with them remained distant. She and Noel felt like intruders in their ex-pat lives. As a result, Edie had developed a protective carapace at a young age. No one could hurt her if she looked after herself without relying on anyone else, not even Aunt Emma.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘My main memory is peering between the bannisters at the parties you gave, perfumes mixed with cigarette smoke and the sound of voices and music. All sorts of smells coming from the kitchen. And then being dragged away by whichever maid was looking after us.’ The idea of doing any kind of painting or crafting with her mother seemed a far cry from the reality of her young life.
‘Your adventures sound so glamorous compared with ours.’ Hope sounded wistful. ‘Life on a farm was very different.’
Edie had envied Paul his childhood life when he had first told her about it. The stability and love. Until their divorce, Hope and Martin seemed to have given him the sort of upbringing that she had craved for herself.
Mary had reclaimed the box of plastic beads from under its cushion and was showing Betty how the pieces of jewellery fitted together.
‘Be careful she doesn’t put them in her mouth,’ said Edie.
‘I daresay we were lucky,’ Mary replied to Hope, not acknowledging her daughter. ‘David was such a wonderful and clever man.’
Her adoration of her late husband must have been what led to her emotional neglect of her children, reflected Edie. There was no room for anyone else, not even her and Noel.
When Betty’s chubby hands tried to fix the tiny beads, they fell to floor. But Mary pressed on undaunted, despite Betty losing all interest. She was rummaging in the box looking for the right colour and shape of bead, then whooped with triumph. ‘Yes! Here it is. Betty. Look!’
Betty looked up at her name but returned her attention to her doll that she was making whimper by punching its stomach. Eventually Mary had made a bright necklace, by which time Betty was reading a book again with Hope.
‘Betty! Come and try the necklace. Now.’ Edie called, eager to get it back in the box before the beads were swallowed or lost. Besides, she wanted her mother to have some appreciation.
Paul looked up at her.
She hadn’t meant to sound so stretched.
‘This is great cake, Edie. I wish you’d make them more often.’
‘It really is,’ said Hope. ‘You must give me the recipe.’ Was she being as patronising as Edie heard?
‘The lemon drizzle is superb.’ Mary had eaten about a teaspoonful. ‘Is that the one you made, darling? I’ve forgotten.’
‘No. That’s the one Hope brought.’ Her mother didn’t mean to be tactless, she told herself. ‘Betty, I love your necklace.’
Mary popped it over the child’s head, looking pleased.
As Betty reached up to pull at it, the string of popper beads broke and scattered to the floor. Her mouth opened wide with disappointment and her eyes welled with tears as Mary and Edie scrabbled on the floor to rescue them.
‘Betty! Can you make me some tea?’ Hope brandished the plastic teapot she had given Betty for Christmas, successfully distracting her. ‘I’ll help you.’
Betty looked at her warily, then forgot the beads and busied herself with organizing the plastic cups and saucers. Mary poppered the necklace together again, a tut accompanying every added bead, her apparent pleasure in the task diminishing by the moment. By the time she had completed it, Betty couldn’t be torn away from pouring out imaginary tea and presenting cups to Hope and the others.
‘More coffee, Mary?’ Paul proffered the jug.
‘I should really get going,’ she said, clearly upset by Betty’s lack of attention. Or perhaps more that the little girl’s attention was on Hope.
‘What about Hazel,’ asked Edie, desperate for her mother not to leave on a bad note. ‘You haven’t even seen her. I could get her up now.’ Although she knew this would cause problems. Hazel hated being woken.
Mary looked at the wall clock. Ten minutes slow, but Edie didn’t draw her attention to that. It would only make her rush. ‘Well, all right.’
Edie ran upstairs and lifted Hazel out of the cot. The baby was all warm and snuggly until she realized Edie was putting her on the plastic mat to change her nappy. Immediately her back arched and her mouth widened into a piercing scream.
‘Shhh. Come on. Be good, please. I want you to make a good impression.’ Edie finished unbuttoning the legs of her Babygro.
Edie eventually succeeded in forcing her wriggly baby into a nappy and her clothes. By the time they got downstairs, they were both exhausted, but Hazel at least had cried herself out.
Mary looked taken aback as Edie went over to give her Hazel, but she couldn’t refuse. She looked stiff and awkward as she attempted to make Hazel comfortable on her lap. ‘Oof! You are a big girl,’ she said.
At that, and the fact she was in the arms of a complete stranger, Hazel’s chin wobbled, her mouth turned down at the corners – a sure warning sign – before she opened it in a loud wail.
5
As the water of Hampstead Ladies’ Pond closed round her, Hope felt an invigorating shock of cold race through her body which she slowly adjusted to. Swimming outdoors reliably made her feel at one with herself, with nature, and soon the tensions of the morning at Paul and Edie’s began to ebb away. Iridescent blue dragonflies and bright butterflies darted past her while in the distance a family of moorhens scattered. She spotted a heron on the bank, completely still, observing the scene in front of him. Around her, the water was dark, the bottom unknowable, and the particular leafy organic smell that she associated with the place permeated the air. And, of course, only women were admissible, which gave a very special sense of community. She imagined Mary swimming here and couldn’t help laughing to herself. This was a million miles from the warm, clear blue pools her co-grandmother would have been used to with loungers at the side, cocktails on tap and sunshine guaranteed.
Drying off later, Hope reflected on the morning. What a self-centred woman Mary was. No wonder Edie had issues – who wouldn’t with a mother like that? Was that why she had always clammed up when Hope asked anything about her background? Was she embarrassed or ashamed? Or even angry and resentful? The only time she had seemed to open up a little was when talking about her dad, whom she had clearly admired, but that was not the same as love. Hope would remember that in future.
‘How did it go?’ Vita stepped out of the water, larger than life in her flamboyant pink swimsuit. She shook the water out of her hair.
‘I made a terrible mistake by taking a cake with me – a peace offering, I suppose – but Edie had made one herself. Immediately, I could tell that I’d done the wrong thing, but it was too late then.’
Vita laughed and took the towel Hope held out to her. They went to the grass burnt brown by the summer sun that was now struggling out from behind the clouds. They found a spot to lie and dry off. Hope loved this place, the vast expanse of water surrounded by trees and bushes, cutting it off from the city. It could be relied upon to make her feel at peace, whatever was going on in the world outside. A flight of shrieking green parakeets flew overhead.
‘Then Mary said she preferred mine. I could have died.’
‘Ah well, at least Edie made one. I like that in a mum.’
‘Me, too. But see how I did the wrong thing again?’
‘You know what I think? You need to find another man. You must be over Liam by now. That way you’d have something and someone else to think about.’
Hope remembered the man she had met online and pulled a face. ‘Is that really the solution?’
Vita’s view was that everyone needed someone else if the world was going to keep turning. ‘You don’t want to be on your own for ever, do you?’
‘I’d rather be on my own than be with someone I don’t really like.’
‘He seemed okay to me.’
‘He was more than okay, but he wanted more from me than I wanted to give and then we grew apart over the years. He was too needy.’ To begin with she had enjoyed his pursuit of her, wanting to be with someone who wanted her. But eventually she couldn’t put up with another conversation about how he wanted them to live together, share their lives more. In the end, they’d agreed they wanted different things from the time they had left to them, so agreed on parting as friends.
‘Not everyone’s like that, though.’
‘Probably not. But who would I find? Men my age are looking for someone much younger. Liam’s moved on to someone in her late forties, he says, whereas I’d have to settle for someone around eighty and then I’ll end up having to nurse them until they die. Nah, I’d rather have a dog.’ She laughed. ‘Joke! Anyway, I’m quite used to being on my own now.’
‘My point exactly! You’ll soon be so governed by your routines and habits that there won’t be room for anyone else in your life. Not even a dog.’
‘There isn’t now. The arrangement I had with Liam was perfect.’ They had been together for six years, living separately all that while.
‘You could find someone else to have the same deal with, couldn’t you?’
‘How? Those online dating sites fill me with dread, and I don’t meet anyone anymore. At least I do, but not in that way.’
‘You’ve got to put yourself out there somehow.’
‘I’m happy as things are. I like my independence.’
‘If you say so.’ But Vita sounded far from convinced.
Was Hope really happy? Did she know? What was happiness, anyway? Was it something that came from an outside agency? Or was it something that came from inside? Her grandchildren made her happy. Paul had given her so much happiness. Martin too, until their relationship splintered. She pictured the Cornish cliff paths, the beaches and the farm where she had once found such contentment with her now ex-husband. Cooking – that made her happy too. She lived the life she wanted and experienced the joy that came with that, but it could never be absolute. Only she knew that.
* * *
Hope and Marie, her co-cook, stepped through Mrs Carswell’s imposing front door armed with boxes of provisions. Both stopped in their tracks. They were used to catering for the more well-heeled, but the Carswells’ house was something else. The hall was wide and welcoming, parquet-floored, a signed Hockney print on the wall, a large and elaborate floral arrangement on the console table. Mrs Carswell swept down the staircase wearing a silk peignoir, a towel wrapped round her head, hands held out before her so that the blood-red varnish didn’t smudge.
‘Thank goodness you’re here. I was beginning to worry.’
Hope checked her watch. They were five minutes early.
‘The kitchen’s this way. I’d prefer you to use the back door when you leave, if you don’t mind.’ She pushed the door open with a hip to reveal a large modern kitchen, which Hope gazed at aghast. The central island was covered in clutter. Leftover breakfast things jostled with lunch plates. Used pans sat on the hob. A pile of dirty plates and glasses stood on the draining board, waiting to be washed. Cupboard doors were left open. How were she and Marie supposed to stick to their timetable with all this mess to work around?
‘The children,’ said Mrs Carswell, by way of explanation. ‘So sorry, but I didn’t have time to clear up and it’s our housekeeper’s day off. It’s not a problem, is it?’
How could Hope say, ‘Actually, yes’?
‘It’s not something we usually deal with, so it’ll be an additional cost,’ she said instead.
‘That’s fine.’ Mrs Carswell gave an airy wave.
Business expenses, Hope assumed as she followed her in, her back pressing against the door so that she didn’t drop anything. Mrs Carswell didn’t offer to help or show them round the kitchen. Hope disliked working with clients like this. Most didn’t treat them like staff and at least made an effort to prepare for their arrival.
Before unpacking, she and Marie spent twenty minutes clearing space for themselves, washing and drying, filling the dishwasher and piling up stuff that had no obvious home. Having done that, they unpacked the boxes and began to assemble the meal. This was a dance the two of them had performed numerous times and they knew exactly how the other worked. Hope loved Marie’s meticulousness. No detail was too small. Hope left her co-chef to the lobster tails, while she heated the oven ready for the beef Wellington.
They’d spent the whole day prepping. Each course was cooked as far as possible in advance so that it could be finished off with the least trouble in the Carswells’ kitchen, and everything had to be perfect. Three-quarters of an hour before service, they heard the first guests arriving.
Mrs Carswell returned, now wearing skin-tight black leather trousers and a white shirt. She had pulled her hair back into a ponytail, but even the Essex facelift couldn’t hide the tension in her expression.
‘Are you ready, ladies?’
‘The lobster tails will be on the table in five minutes,’ said Hope, checking her watch.
‘We said 8 p.m.’ She rapped a nail on the face of her Apple watch.
‘Exactly.’ Hope was firm, knowing that once she let a client walk all over her, that marked the end of the relationship.
Mrs Carswell retreated.
‘Phew!’ said Marie under her breath. ‘She’s quite the one.’
‘Let’s just do this and get out of here,’ said Hope.
They removed their aprons to serve the food in the red dining room that more resembled a boudoir than anything else. The lighting was dim, two branched candlesticks at either end of the table. The silver shone and glasses glittered. Conversation between the Carswells and their four guests seemed stilted. Hope announced each course as they brought it in, earning wide smiles. She was glad to know that her food had brought some pleasure to the table, at least.
* * *
The following morning, Vita turned up at ten, clutching two takeaway lattes.
‘You’ve read my mind.’ Hope was pleased to see her, as always. They went to the upstairs office – once Paul’s bedroom, but the bed had gone with Paul – leaving the room to become a compact working space where all the admin for Booking the Cooks was done. Almost everything was computer-driven, so all they had on the shelves were their favourite cookery books, photos of them at work, cards of thanks pinned to the corkboard, and on the two desks that faced each other, two laptops. The real work went on in Hope’s basement kitchen.
‘So, how did it go?’
‘Fine. Marie did a great job, and they enjoyed some great food. Not that Mrs C was grateful – just took it as a service.’
‘One of those.’
‘Not the first and certainly won’t be the last. I’m glad I went, though. I wouldn’t like one of the others to have to deal with her. I told her we’d need to charge more for having to clean up the kitchen before we started. She hadn’t made the least effort.’
Years of friendship and working together meant Vita could read Hope’s moods as well as she knew her own. She flicked the blinds to keep out the sun and settled on her ergonomic office chair, swinging round on it to face Hope, her loose red linen dress hanging over the sides. Work was clearly not the first thing on her mind today. Vita was brilliant with the customers, particularly the difficult ones, as well as being the most reliable and helpful listener that Hope knew, but she did like a good gossip. As she probed Hope for more information on the previous night’s dinner party guests, she got on with sorting out the post that she’d brought upstairs from the doormat.
‘This one’s for you.’ She passed a white envelope to Hope. She didn’t recognize the handwriting: sharp, neat, leaning to the right. ‘What’s this?’
She watched Hope rip it open with a finger and take out a folded letter.
‘Well?’
‘No idea.’
As Hope’s eyes travelled down the letter, she froze. Then she had to stop and go back to the beginning again. This was impossible. After so many years, she couldn’t believe what she was reading.
‘Are you okay?’ Vita stopped what she was doing. ‘You’re looking peculiar.’
‘Fine.’ Hope turned away and carried on reading, shocked by the letter’s contents.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing, really. Just a letter from someone I haven’t heard from for a long time.’
Her head was spinning, so she reached for her glass of water. Only the small teddy bear she had pushed to the back of a bedroom drawer knew the truth about what had happened, and fortunately he couldn’t talk. But occasionally, when she was on her own, she got him out, and remembered.
