A Home for Broken Hearts, page 20
‘Look, if I’m honest,’ she said slowly, ‘I do think Matt is, you know … attractive and I do sometimes wonder what it would be like … but even if he does want to unwrap me …’ Ellen stalled as Allegra snorted laughter. ‘Even if he did look at me like that this morning in the kitchen …’
‘I knew it!’ Allegra looked triumphant.
‘Even so,’ Ellen went on, ‘it’s not a year since Nick died, Allegra. The anniversary is in a few days days and to me it still feels like yesterday that the police turned up at the door and asked me to sit down in the front room. I love him. I love my husband. Thoughts and feeling and fantasies – they are OK, fun even. Like reading your books because they are safe, as you said. But I couldn’t ever do anything for real, not ever.’
‘Not ever?’ Allegra asked her. ‘Ever is a very long time, Ellen. People are quick to tell you that life is short, and you yourself have good reason to believe that. But I promise you, when you are alone life can seem very, very long.’
‘When you love someone as much as I loved Nick, and when you know that he loved you every bit as much, that doesn’t just go away, it doesn’t just evaporate. I felt that way about Nick since the first moment I saw him. I don’t think it’s possible that I will ever feel differently. After all, that’s what love is, isn’t it? It’s eternal.’
Allegra leaned her head back against her chaise longue.
‘It would be nice if that were true,’ she said. ‘But love is like anything else, it’s ephemeral, as fragile as a spider’s web on a windy day.’
‘But in your books love always conquers all,’ Ellen said. ‘You’ve written some of the most romantic work ever, your job title is romantic novelist!’
‘Yes, I have always felt a bit guilty about peddling that myth, but as you said I write fantasies and women want to believe in romance.’ Allegra shrugged. ‘Like children want to believe in Father Christmas and Christians are desperate to believe in God.’
‘But …’ Before Ellen could go on the doorbell sounded, spreading a trickle of fear through her chest the way it always had since she heard it chime on 12 July, nearly a year ago.
‘Well it can’t be Hannah,’ she said, looking in the direction of the front door as if she might be able to discern who the visitor was through a brick wall and two solid oak doors. ‘I wonder who it is?’
‘You could try the radical approach of answering the door and finding out,’ Allegra said drily. The bell rang again.
‘I’m not expecting anyone. I had the supermarket delivery already,’ Ellen said doubtfully, remaining firmly seated.
‘Oh for God’s sake, woman – answer the bloody door before you force an aged woman to get up and do it for you.’
Utterly reluctant to open her house to whatever might be waiting outside, Ellen forced herself out of her seat and went into the hall. Her heart pounding in her chest, she made herself place her hand on the latch. Taking a breath she opened the door, flinching against the invasive sunlight that flooded into the hallway.
‘Ellen.’ Simon beamed at her, his arms outstretched ready for an embrace. ‘I was beginning to think you’d gone out!’ He pulled her over the threshold and briefly into his arms before releasing her back inside. ‘Look at you, you look radiant. I hope you don’t mind me interrupting you, but I read the pages that you emailed me last night and they were so fantastic that I thought I’d come and take you and Allegra to lunch to celebrate. I’ve booked the River Café at one.’
‘You’ve booked … but Simon, look at me.’ Ellen retreated into the hallway, gesturing down at herself. ‘I can’t go anywhere dressed like this!’
‘My love,’ Simon smiled. ‘A woman as beautiful as you could go anywhere in sackcloth and still outshine every other soul there, but it’s fine. I’ve booked a cab and it’s not coming for half an hour. Plenty of time for you to gild the lily while I tell Allegra what a literary genius she is.’
‘And yet still no Booker nomination – where’s the justice?’ Allegra emerged from her room to greet Simon, having discreetly reapplied a little lipstick first. With a fresh spray of her favourite perfume lingering in the air, she kissed him lightly on either cheek, one hand resting against his chest with the practised grace of a woman who knew exactly how to behave around men. It was an impressive skill, Ellen thought, realising that she had only ever learnt to behave around one very particular man. ‘I wondered when I might get the kind of attention that I deserve from you as the writer who single-handedly pays your bills. Did I hear you say River Café? Of course it’s not as good as it used to be and it’s not the Ivy, but it will do I suppose.’
‘That’s settled then.’ Simon took Allegra’s hand from his chest and kissed its palm, before turning to Ellen. ‘Darling, before you go and improve on perfection do you have anything cold to drink? It’s hotter than hell out there.’
Ellen looked from Allegra to Simon and back again, her feet firmly rooted to the floor.
‘Simon, it’s just – I don’t have anything to wear. I really don’t have any clothes, nothing nice at all. I haven’t bought anything new since … well since Nick’s funeral and I just … I’m all grungy and hot and I’d need a shower … Look, you two go without me. Allegra always looks so lovely, I’d just embarrass you.’
‘Nonsense,’ Simon protested, ‘you could never do that – Ellen, I’ve already said, you look perfect just as you are. I mean that.’
‘Besides, if Simon is pleased with the new chapters of our book then it’s just as much down to you as it is to me. You are my muse, Ellen – and you have the best ideas. I insist that you come and take the credit that is due to you.’ Allegra smiled encouragingly.
Ellen chewed the inside of her lip, knotting her fingers together as she led them both into the kitchen and poured Simon a glass of cold water from the fridge.
‘It’s just … if you’d called and I had known that you were coming I could have got ready. I can’t drop everything. You and Allegra go. Please. I’ll stay here and … tidy up a bit.’ Ellen gestured around the immaculate kitchen that sparkled like a new pin.
There were several seconds of discomfort while the three of them stood there, not quite certain how to proceed.
‘Actually, Simon, dear.’ Allegra spoke up, tucking her arm through Ellen’s. ‘Do you know I think she might have the right idea, it is terribly hot out there. Probably too hot for an old lady like me, we drop like flies in this weather you know. Too hot or too cold and the Grim Reaper has a field day. So as I’d rather finish this book before I shuffle off my mortal coil, perhaps it would be better if we had lunch here, if my gracious hostess wouldn’t mind?’
Ellen felt Allegra’s fingers tightening briefly around her arm and felt reassured.
‘Oh, I’ve got loads – as you know, the supermarket delivered this morning.’ Ellen went back to the fridge, letting the chilled air calm her hectic cheeks. ‘There’s smoked salmon, and Brie, grapes – oh and cold chicken from yesterday, fresh French bread, loads of salad and some wine. I’m sure I could rustle something up.’ She turned back to look at Simon. ‘If you don’t mind, Simon. As Allegra would feel more comfortable here, that is.’
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ Simon said, looking a little bewildered. ‘Like Allegra said, the River Café is long past its best anyway. I’ll just cancel the car and come and help you chop something.’
Simon wheeled in Allegra’s desk chair and with Nick’s chair tucked discreetly under the table, the three of them settled down for lunch, Ellen content to listen as Simon waxed lyrical about the latest chapters of The Sword Erect.
‘Who would have thought a suburb like Shepherds Bush would suit you quite so well, Allegra?’ Simon said, leaning back in Charlie’s chair, sipping a glass of wine. ‘I’m thinking of phoning the builders and telling them to delay the restoration of your house for as long as possible.’
‘I must admit it is far more tolerable here than I expected.’ Allegra smiled briefly at Ellen. ‘I find Ellen rather refreshing, a vast improvement on that last dreadful stain on humanity that I was saddled with. Shame she wasn’t washed away in the flood waters, the ungrateful wretch.’
‘Lord, I’d hate to get on your bad side,’ Ellen said. ‘What did she do that was so terrible?’
‘Breathed,’ Allegra said, with such finality that Ellen considered the subject closed.
‘And Eliza is really starting to live. Do you know, I think she is your best female character yet.’ Simon deftly changed the subject.
‘That’s because in my mind’s eye Eliza is Ellen,’ Allegra told him. ‘Or rather what Ellen could be if she would allow it.’ Ellen expected Simon to laugh out loud, but instead he simply watched her over the rim of his wine glass, until she lowered her gaze.
‘Yes,’ he said, with just a trace of humour. ‘Yes, I can see Ellen rampaging around the countryside, offing assailants and saving the day. Leaving a trail of lovelorn men in her wake.’
‘Did you know that Ellen has a suitor?’ Allegra said, that mischievous meddling glint returning to her eye.
‘A suitor?’ Simon sat up a little in his chair. ‘Who, pray?’
‘Her young lodger is quite taken with her. I am trying to persuade her to take him as a lover but she is most resistant. Don’t you think she should grasp the nettle, so to speak?’
‘God, I hardly know!’ Simon said, tucking in his chin and blushing. ‘But I would think that it would be something for dear Ellen to decide – not you or I. Really, Allegra, when will you consider it time to stop being such a bad influence? It’s hardly seemly at—’
‘If you say my age I will off you myself with this bread knife,’ Allegra told him with some menace.
‘Simon is right, though,’ Ellen said. ‘Next you’ll be suggesting we put on miniskirts and go clubbing!’
‘I wouldn’t rule it out,’ Allegra smiled. Simon shook his head.
‘Don’t take Allegra seriously, she’s like Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, she can’t help but stir things up.’
‘I always thought that whole debacle was more Oberon’s doing than his poor queen’s,’ Allegra said mildly. ‘But there you are, that was ever the way of the world. Women get the blame for the actions of men.’ She levelled her gaze on Ellen. ‘Except for women who take action, that is,’ she said.
‘Is that the time?’ Simon looked at his watch and sighed. ‘Ellen, thank you for a lovely lunch. It kills me to have to leave you with this old harridan but I must get back to the office. We’ve got a launch meeting for our new series, we’re trying something contemporary. Unbridled passion on the photocopier, that sort of thing.’
‘Sounds appalling,’ Allegra muttered.
‘Just make sure she finishes the book,’ Simon told Ellen, cupping her face in his hand and kissing her briefly before looking sternly at Allegra.
‘And as for you, remember you’re a pensioner.’
He escaped before Allegra had time to brandish her knife.
After he had gone Allegra sat at the table while Ellen busied herself putting away the lunch things. It was almost three and she was hoping that Charlie would come straight back today, that there wouldn’t be any tense minutes wondering what was happening to him and that maybe, just maybe when he came in he’d be smiling, perhaps even want to talk to her. She worried about the anniversary of Nick’s death, which had started to loom large on the horizon, she worried about what Charlie was thinking and how she was handling it or if she were handling it at all.
‘Do you know that with just a little effort you could be quite the siren?’ Allegra said as Ellen stacked the dishwasher, a loose lock of hair trailing down her back. Ellen did not reply, caught up as she was in her own thoughts. ‘Didn’t think so,’ Allegra said quietly to herself.
Chapter Thirteen
Occasionally, so occasionally that when it happens you find yourself pleasantly surprised, things work out the way you want them to, which was how Ellen felt when Charlie came home just before four, bounding up the stairs and even humming.
Released early from work by Allegra, who had said that she felt a little tired (which was Allegra for ‘tipsy’) and needed to rest her eyes (which was Allegra for ‘nap’), Ellen had decided on impulse to go through her wardrobe. Spread on her bed were a selection of dresses and skirts, vapid remnants of a past life when she used to think about what she looked like. She picked up one of Nick’s favourite dresses, a pale blue cotton affair printed with tiny chintzy flowers, with a square-cut neck, little cap sleeves and covered buttons down the front. She held it against her body as she looked in the mirror, smoothing it over her breasts and shaping it to her hips.
Odd how it didn’t look like her dress any more, or even like anything she would choose to wear herself. The colour clashed with her olive skin and green eyes and the length, which fell just below the knee, made her look a good deal shorter than she was. And if Ellen remembered rightly the little covered buttons used to pull uncomfortably over her bust, so that she had feared making any sudden movements with her arms in case they pinged off one by one. She had hated wearing this dress, and yet she had worn it because Nick had chosen it.
Hearing laughter drifting in through the crack in her bedroom window, Ellen went to investigate, pulling back the thick cream lace curtain that she habitually kept drawn. Standing on the street beneath her was her neighbour, wearing the red dress that she had seen on the line, and she was talking to someone else, perhaps another neighbour. As she hovered behind the curtain, Ellen peered at the man, but she didn’t recognise him. That didn’t mean anything, though, she realised – the whole street could have changed ownership in the last year and she wouldn’t have known a thing about it. She remembered that just after Nick’s funeral many of her neighbours had visited, most dropping cards through the letter box, wanting to show support but not intrude, but some knocking on the door asking if there was anything they could do (as if there could be). Ellen’s red-dressed neighbour, Laura something, if Ellen remembered correctly, had arrived with a casserole in a dish. It had been the first morning that Ellen had been on her own in the house and she wouldn’t have opened the door if she had remembered that she didn’t have to, but habit had moved her body before her brain could engage.
Laura had looked tired, drained, as she held out the dish.
‘It’s just chicken,’ she said by way of a greeting. ‘I remember that after my husband left me I didn’t have the energy to eat anything. You’ve got a little boy haven’t you, so I thought you might want this. It’s nothing much, forty-five minutes in the oven at one eighty should do it.’
Uncertain of what to say Ellen had taken the casserole, a faint earthy scent of chicken and vegetables wafting upward, incongruous on that summer morning.
‘Thank you,’ Ellen had said, at a loss to know how to respond.
‘You don’t have to thank me,’ Laura said. ‘Just drop the dish back when you’ve finished.’
Now, as she stood in the window, Ellen realised she still had the earthenware dish sitting in the back of her kitchen cupboard. She hadn’t spoken to Laura since.
Laura laughed again and pressing her hand on the man’s chest, leant in and kissed him, not on the cheek or even the mouth but on his neck, just beneath his jawline. Shocked by the moment of unexpected intimacy, Ellen withdrew further behind the curtain, but she did not stop looking, It seemed much more had happened to her neighbour over the last year than losing a casserole dish and acquiring a dress. Ellen watched as the pair linked fingers in one last gesture of familiarity before parting ways, slowly, until their hands pulled apart, and one last over-the-shoulder smile was exchanged.
As Ellen watched Laura walking purposefully down the street in her red dress she wondered if her life would ever be something like that again, a world of possibilities, a view with a far horizon. Her heart quickened a little in her chest as she thought about feeling the sun on her hair, the touch of a man’s pulse beneath her lips.
Flinging her blue dress on to the bed Ellen looked over her meagre collection of clothes, wondering, just for fun, if there was anything in there that she might wear if she were going to seduce Matt. The thought made her chuckle as she rifled through one sensible outfit after another. Even before Nick, her dress sense hadn’t been desperately daring. She wondered whether Matt had ever been seduced by a woman in a stitched-down pleated skirt and polo-neck sweater. Hannah always knew how to dress, Ellen thought, eyeing a pastel pink cardigan that she had no recollection of ever owning. If there wasn’t this invisible, unquantifiable obstruction between the two of them, she would ask Hannah to give her some tips. Sometimes, Ellen thought as she sat down on the bed and raked her fingers through the clothes, she wondered how she and Hannah could possibly be related.
‘There must be something in here worth wearing,’ she muttered to herself. She had yet to find anything when Charlie came thundering into her room.
He stopped in his tracks when he saw her, as if he’d only just remembered that they’d been fighting.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Hello,’ Ellen said warmly, biting off the word ‘darling’ before it could escape her lips. ‘Good day?’
‘Yeah, not bad actually,’ Charlie said, sounding surprised by the revelation.
‘That’s good.’ Ellen gestured at the bed. ‘Thought I’d sort some stuff out for charity.’
‘Dad’s stuff?’ Charlie asked, glancing at the half of the Edwardian oak wardrobe that was still crammed with Nick’s clothes.
‘No, not Dad’s things. Not yet. My old things.’
‘You should get some new clothes,’ Charlie said, fingering a folded piece of paper that he’d pulled from his trouser pocket. ‘If you like I could come shopping with you on Saturday. We could go to Westfield, it’s got millions of shops, there’s bound to be something you like – you should see it, Mum, it’s massive.’
