The Promise, page 9
She blew her nose again and blinked. ‘Dear me, I must look a fright,’ she said, rummaging in her handbag for a compact mirror-and-powder thing. ‘A large glass of Sauvignon Blanc, please, Daniel.’ She peered at her reflection as she dusted her face. Liz Sheppard had always taken care over her appearance, with her chic silvery bob, statement jewellery and smart handbags. Today, however, she looked – well, pretty unkempt actually, although she would have killed Dan for saying as much. He wasn’t usually good at noticing such things, but even he could see that her hair needed cutting and her navy dress was crumpled.
‘A very large one, if you know what I mean.’
‘One bucket of wine coming up,’ he confirmed, before remembering the spreadsheet pinned on his fridge at home. Of course! He should have factored his parents into the plan too, in an attempt to fill up the gaps Patrick’s death had left in their lives. He squeezed her shoulder gently. ‘Listen, Mum, I was wondering. Is there anything that Patrick used to do for you that I could do instead?’ he asked. ‘Like . . . odd jobs or what-have-you?’
His mum sniffled, putting her compact away. ‘We just miss him popping round, don’t we, Derek?’ she said plaintively. ‘Every time someone comes to the door, I think it might be him, even now, but . . .’
‘Yes,’ agreed her husband when she trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. He was a taciturn man who used words with economy, as if speaking each one cost him money. Apart from when he lost his temper, of course, when he would spray them out full pelt. As a little boy, Dan had once been so frightened when his dad started shouting at his mum in the car about a wrong set of directions that he’d wet himself, the hot splash of liquid soaking through his trousers onto the vinyl back seat. He still remembered how his mum had sighed, ‘Oh, Daniel’ at him, when they eventually arrived and got out of the car, and how Patrick had instinctively put an arm around him.
‘Popping round?’ he asked now. ‘What, at the weekend or . . . ?’
‘No, during the week. He’d be driving by and he’d drop in for a cuppa. Sometimes he’d help out your dad, or he’d get me a bit of shopping if my legs were playing up or . . . You know. He was just there a lot.’
This was all news to Dan. Working in his glass box over in the City for long hours during the week, he had never once dropped round to see his mum and dad in this way. It hadn’t occurred to him that Patrick might. ‘Right,’ he said, feeling as if he’d missed something obvious. ‘I see. Well, maybe I should start doing the same.’ He would do the same, he thought immediately. This very week he would manufacture an excuse to drive over to their small semi in Brentford and play a more active role in his parents’ lives. ‘In the meantime, let me get those drinks. Dad, what would you like?’
He escaped to the crush of sons and husbands at the bar, still mulling over the fact that he had perhaps neglected his parents in a way Patrick clearly hadn’t. It was like discovering you’d missed out on a party that everyone else had been invited to – only in this case he should have thought to invite himself. Dan had always thought he knew his brother well, but here was something that he’d been unaware of. A second thing he’d been unaware of, rather, because he still hadn’t been able to track down this mysterious Lydia Fox of the ‘Maintenance’ payments leaving Patrick’s business bank account. He had searched for her through all the contacts on his brother’s phone, trawled through email accounts and Facebook friends, but had found no trace. Whoever this woman was, it looked very much as if Patrick had wanted her to be kept secret. But who was she to him?
There had to be some rational explanation for the payments, he kept telling himself. There must be. His imagination had provided all sorts of lurid options that he didn’t want to look at too closely: was she a mistress, tucked away in one of his flats? With Patrick paying her from his company account, as if she were some kind of business expense, some other service that was being supplied? ‘Maintenance’ made him think there must be a child there too, which added a whole other layer of complexity. But no. Patrick had behaved badly in the past – Dan was trying not to dwell too closely on that – but this was getting into the realms of bonkers fantasy, surely?
‘Hello, lovey, your mum and dad sent us over,’ came a voice just then and he turned to see his Aunty Mary and Uncle Colin at the bar beside him. ‘I’ll have a small sherry, if you’re buying, and Colin will have – pint of bitter, Colin?’
‘Please,’ said Colin, who was never one to disagree with his wife. If she’d told him he was having a Jägerbomb or a flaming Sambuca, he’d probably have nodded obediently.
‘I thought we would be the last ones here today – Colin couldn’t find his glasses as usual – but I gather Zoe hasn’t arrived yet,’ said Mary, with a sympathetic cluck. ‘It must be very hard for her, the poor thing, especially when the children are all so . . . Ah. Here she is now.’
Dan looked over to see Zoe and the kids barrelling through the pub door. Zoe wore her usual frazzled expression as she gazed around, simultaneously ignoring Ethan and Gabe who were bickering furiously, as well as Bea, who was plucking at Zoe’s sleeve with an urgent expression. Who was he not seeing? Dan wondered, unable to stop thinking about the maintenance payments. Another child, another partner? What on earth had Patrick got himself into – and how much, if anything, did Zoe know?
‘Oh dear. She’s got her hands full, hasn’t she?’ sniffed Mary, frowning as Gabe thumped Ethan’s arm.
‘Zoe! Over here,’ called Dan, wondering in the next moment if the children had any idea it was Mother’s Day. Damn it. If he’d known, he could have given Ethan a heads-up on Wednesday, chucked him some cash to sort out cards and flowers for his mum. But if even he, an adult, hadn’t been on the ball, he was pretty sure the children wouldn’t have organized anything themselves.
‘Hi,’ he said, waving as they approached. ‘What do you all want to drink? Special Mother’s Day glass of fizz, Zo?’ By the way, what does the name Lydia Fox mean to you, Zo?
Zoe looked wan. ‘Just a tea, please. Kids, what would you like?’
Ethan asked for a Coke, Bea a lemonade – no, orange juice; no, actually a fizzy apple juice; yes, definitely that – while Gabe asked for a pint of beer and then changed it to a hot chocolate when Zoe told him off for being silly.
‘You do all know it’s Mother’s Day, right?’ Dan said to the children, with a meaningful look over at Zoe.
‘Uh-oh,’ said Gabe, eyeing her. ‘Nope. We didn’t have a clue.’
‘I thought it was Grandma’s birthday,’ said Bea, frowning.
‘Well, it’s that too,’ said Dan, ‘but—’
‘It’s fine, it’s not a big deal,’ Zoe interrupted. ‘Don’t start guilt-tripping them. Bea, let’s find the loo, I thought you were bursting. Boys, help your uncle carry the drinks over, please.’
Dan opened his mouth to defend himself, then shut it again. He wasn’t trying to guilt-trip anyone, he wanted to say; he was trying to be thoughtful. But she was already walking away with Bea.
‘Who’s next?’ called the bar worker then, and Dan spun round to put in the order.
‘Don’t take any notice of Mum,’ Ethan said gruffly. ‘She’s just in a bad mood today.’
‘Yeah, we had to get the bus because the car wouldn’t start, and then she said the f-word,’ said Gabe, looking gleeful at the memory. ‘Well, she didn’t actually say “the f-word”, she said “fuck”, but—’
‘Gabe,’ said Dan warningly as his Aunty Mary started pulling her cardigan about herself, making Goodness-me-how-disgraceful faces. ‘Language.’ Then he motioned to the barman. ‘Sorry, mate. Could you change that pint of lager to a Coke, please?’ The pub was only a ten-minute walk from his flat; if Zoe’s car was playing up, he could give them all a lift back home later on, he figured. ‘Ta.’ Then he took a twenty-pound note from his wallet, handing it to Ethan. Better late than never. ‘Here – maybe you could pop out and get your mum something with this later on, when you’re back in Kew. A bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates, that sort of thing. Say it’s from all of you, yeah?’
Gabe’s eyes went round. ‘Wow! Twenty quid!’
‘Yeah, for me to look after, not you,’ Ethan told him, tucking it into his jeans pocket. ‘Thanks, Uncle Dan.’
One more good deed to add to his balance sheet, he thought a few minutes later, carrying the drinks over to the table. Two good deeds, if Zoe said yes to the lift home.
He wondered if he would ever be able to earn enough to achieve any kind of redemption. Right now, he doubted it.
Zoe had never really gone in for Mother’s Day in a big way, so she’d been surprised, on waking up that Sunday, by how flat she felt without Patrick there, marshalling the children to bring her a tray of breakfast things plus a vase of whatever-was-alive in the garden. (One year she had been presented with a selection of twigs with a cake-ribbon tied around them; it had been a hard winter.) This year – nothing. She didn’t have the heart to mention it to the kids; it didn’t matter, she thought as she made the breakfast herself. But then the car wouldn’t start and she didn’t know what to do – and this made her miss Patrick more than ever. He was good with practical things, he would have figured something out. ‘Can we go in Dad’s van instead?’ Gabe had piped up hopefully, but there wasn’t room for them all in there – and besides Zoe had never liked driving it.
‘Do we have to go?’ moaned Ethan, kicking at the tyres of the useless car.
‘Yes, it’s Grandma’s special birthday, and she’s booked us all in for a nice lunch at the pub,’ Zoe snapped, just as it started to drizzle. ‘We’ll get the bus.’
Once at the pub, she felt herself unwind a little. Liz gave her a hug and made a fuss of the children and even Derek tried his best, producing a 50p coin and doing tricks for Bea. She didn’t have to cook, Zoe consoled herself. She’d washed her hair that morning and put on some lipstick and a nice top for the first time in weeks, and felt a shade more human again as a result. The children were on good form too, with Gabe in particular making everyone laugh with his impressions and general daftness. For a short while she was able to keep the sadness at bay and relax, enjoy the food and company. Even smile a few times. Who knew, she thought, hugging her in-laws goodbye when it was time to leave, that small pleasures could make such a big difference?
Best of all, Dan offered them a lift home, which was a relief to everyone after the bad-tempered bus journey over there. Then, back at the house, he poked around under the bonnet of her car for a while, before coming in to tell her that he was fairly certain it was a flat battery. Under his instruction, they managed to jump-start the engine, then he suggested that Zoe drive around for fifteen minutes or so to give it a decent charge. ‘Call this your Mother’s Day treat,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘Fifteen minutes’ peace on a Sunday. Hell, go out for longer if you want. Put some music on. I’ll hold the fort till you get back again.’
‘Don’t tempt me,’ she said, before grudgingly admitting to herself that she was grateful to him. ‘Thanks,’ she added. ‘I appreciate this.’
‘No problem,’ he replied, putting up a hand in farewell as she edged out of the drive.
It was quite a novelty to Zoe, driving aimlessly around with nowhere in particular to go. Usually sitting at the wheel meant a chore – either going to whichever school she was working in that week, a trip to the supermarket or ferrying the kids to an activity or birthday party, one eye on the clock, worrying about being late and – more often than not – trying to referee a bout of bickering and jostling that was kicking off on the back seat, without losing her focus on the road. None of that today. Complete silence and no distractions. Once she’d recovered from her initial nervousness that the car would give out on her, it was almost a relaxing experience. She turned on the radio and found some upbeat dance music, then whacked the volume up high. Hell, it was Mother’s Day and nobody was around to criticize her singing. Forget Dr Gupta’s advice about lavender baths and talking therapy – it turned out that belting out a great pop song felt better than anything, really cathartic. Right until a cheesy love-ballad came on and she found that tears were rolling down her face, anyway.
She arrived back eventually to find Gabe glued to the Xbox – she really needed to start enforcing stricter rules about that – and Dan taking part in one of Bea’s tea parties, along with various teddies and stuffed toys that had been arranged in a circle. Ethan, hopefully, was upstairs doing homework, although the chances were he was plugged into a game too. Oh, well. She wasn’t going to start picking fights today.
‘All okay?’ Dan asked, setting his miniature floral teacup down on its mismatched red plastic saucer with comedic daintiness.
‘All good,’ she replied. ‘Thanks again. Can I make you a coffee or something?’
‘I’ve just made him one actually, Mummy,’ Bea protested.
Dan pretended to drain the empty teacup, smacking his lips for good measure afterwards. ‘Delicious,’ he assured Bea. ‘Another coffee would be great,’ he replied to Zoe, getting up. ‘Thanks, Bea. That was exactly what I needed.’
They went into the kitchen and then something very weird happened. When Dan went to get the milk out of the fridge he stopped dead in front of it, peered closer at something, then said in a strangled voice, ‘Wait – so you know her? This Lydia Fox?’
‘What?’ Zoe was confused for a moment until she saw he was pointing at a business card pinned up there with a San Francisco tram magnet, and she realized it was the one given to her by the nice woman in the gift shop earlier that week. ‘Oh. No, not really. It’s just some woman I met in a shop.’
‘You met her in a shop?’ For some reason Dan looked completely taken aback. She’d go as far as to say stricken, even. Was there some law that had been passed about talking to strangers in shops, or what? Why was he acting so peculiarly? ‘Recently or—’
‘Yeah, a few days ago. Why?’
‘What, she came up to you and . . . Is she following you or something?’
Zoe stared at him, unable to see where this was going – or, indeed, where it had come from. ‘No. I just . . . Why?’ she repeated. ‘Do you know her then?’
Before he could reply, they both heard the front door slam and Ethan’s voice. ‘Gabe! Bea! Come here!’
Startled, Zoe swung round. ‘Where’s he been?’ she asked, feeling as if she had lost track of her senses. She could have sworn she’d only been out for twenty minutes, yet she seemed to have returned to a parallel universe where nothing felt quite normal.
‘Um, just out,’ Dan replied vaguely.
In the next moment Ethan, Gabe and Bea marched into the kitchen together, Ethan holding a bunch of daffodils, Gabe clutching a box of Milk Tray and Bea brandishing her most beloved pink stuffed unicorn.
‘HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!’ they chorused, all three of them beaming at their own cunning. ‘You can keep my unicorn, if you really want,’ Bea added lavishly, before appearing to regret such impulsive generosity. ‘For today, I mean.’
Zoe actually felt quite tearful for a moment as she crouched down so that they could rush into her arms. The daffs were dripping on one shoulder, a corner of the chocolate box jabbed painfully into her boob, and Bea, scrambling to get on her lap, almost knocked her over, but it was a good moment. A really good moment. ‘My favourite flowers, my favourite chocolates and most definitely my favourite children,’ she said into their necks, as love spread through her like a balm.
It was only much later on that evening that she remembered Dan’s strange behaviour with the shop-woman’s business card, and wondered what that had all been about. Probably nothing, she decided, stuffing a chocolate fudge into her mouth. She wouldn’t waste time dwelling on it, when the worst had already happened. From now on, the only way was up.
Chapter Eight
Lydia was dishing up platefuls of (disappointingly stodgy) macaroni cheese when her phone started ringing. It was Monday teatime and when she glanced over and saw a number she didn’t recognize onscreen, she decided to ignore it. No doubt it would be some scammy call about a non-existent injury claim that she was supposed to have made, or the phone company trying to talk her into an expensive upgrade. No, thanks. Besides, the peas were about to boil over if she didn’t attend to them this second.
‘Tea’s ready,’ she yelled through to Jemima, who had been practising forward rolls up and down the living-room for the last twenty minutes. ‘Bugger off,’ she muttered as the phone began ringing a second time.
Jemima burst in, her bunches loose and wonky after her gymnastics, navy-blue school socks in wrinkles around her ankles. ‘Oh, I forgot to say, Mum,’ she began, hopping from one foot to the other. ‘Guess what? Miss Sergeant’s getting married in June. To a lady!’
‘How nice,’ Lydia said, pouring a glass of milk for her daughter and putting it on the table. Miss Sergeant was Jemima’s kind, clever class teacher and the current object of hero-worship. The much-adored Miss Sergeant had been invited to Jemima’s birthday party back in January. (‘Please don’t feel you have to come,’ Lydia had whispered to her, taking her aside at pick-up time the day invitations came out. ‘At all.’) She had been the recipient of a very special Christmas card that had been laboured over for an entire weekend, and she also starred as the subject of countless anecdotes, observations and drawings. Lydia was pleased that her daughter had a great role model – it was a step up from Barbie, she supposed – but had been slightly taken aback by Jemima’s breathless, unending enthusiasm for the woman. She hoped she hadn’t raised some kind of stalker in the making, put it that way.
