She moved her arm, allowing him to stroke her back, and there was a crackle, then a distinct gurgle on the baby monitor, a noise that she knew was about to turn into a full-blown howl of outrage. Louise was ashamed at the relief that washed through her system.
‘Sorry,’ she said, pulling her T-shirt down with a rueful smile. ‘Must have sensed that coming. Knew it was too good to last.’
Peter sighed and threw himself back on the sofa. ‘How do you think he’ll feel about sleepovers? Too young?’
‘Too young, yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll sort it out. Do you want to watch a DVD or something? Pick it out; I’ll be back down in a minute.’
‘Fine,’ he said flatly, and reached for the wine bottle.
Louise bit her lip. It could wait for now. But not for long.
Chapter 6
‘If it’s a bad time, I can call back later,’ said Ruth.
Ben’s mother always said that before one of her long calls; she never meant it. The one time Juliet had tried, gently, to ask her to call back later because her own mother was there, Ruth had burst into hacking tears that were so loud that even Minton had heard them, and he’d gone running into the garden with fear. It had taken every last ounce of Juliet’s own strength to persuade her that she really did want to talk.
She had no idea where the strength had come from for the subsequent hour-long list of Ben’s wonderful skills, and funny sayings, and all the other memories Ruth felt she had to share, to keep something of her son alive.
The trouble was, Juliet didn’t like talking about Ben. She much preferred to think about him. Talking about him just reminded her that he was gone and wasn’t coming back. All those past tenses, and the occasional present tense thrown in to wrong-foot them both.
‘No, it’s not a bad time, Ruth,’ said Juliet, muting the television but keeping her eyes firmly glued to the couple in the blue fleeces smugly assuming their vintage soda siphon was going to make more than the fifty gullible quid they paid for it.
Don’t deserve to win. Should have listened to the expert, she thought, then shook herself.
Focus on Ruth. In need of support, just like me. Ben’s dad, Raymond, wasn’t a talker. He’d taken to working longer hours since Ben’s death – Ruth said to take his mind off his loss, but Juliet suspected it was to escape Ruth’s bewildered, furious grief.
Fifteen minutes. That was all it would take. Up until a month ago, Ruth had rung every single day; now at least she had three days of news to ask about.
‘So, how are you feeling?’ she asked, absently stroking Minton’s velvet ears.
‘Oh, I’m coping.’ The usual ‘I’m not really’ sigh. ‘I don’t think we’ll ever get over it, not properly. Not when it’s your only child. I can’t believe how people forget! Can you believe this morning, the silly woman in the post office asked me if I was going on holiday anywhere nice! Going on holiday! I can barely get myself together to go shopping . . .’
Minton slid off the seat and stood by the door, his ears pricked. Juliet patted the seat next to her, but he wouldn’t come back up. ‘People don’t understand,’ she said. ‘You can’t expect them to, until they’ve been there. Any news on the bench?’
The memorial bench was ‘the only thing that kept Ruth going’. She’d already been in wrangles with the council Parks Department about exactly where it was to be sited, what sort of wood was permissible and so on. Juliet wasn’t entirely convinced that the bench was the best memorial for Ben; he hated benches in the park, much preferring to lounge on the grass. But it was Ruth’s project, and if it gave her some practical focus for her grief, Juliet wasn’t going to argue.
‘I’ve been talking to some artisan craftsmen,’ said Ruth, ‘but I don’t want to rush it. I want it to be exactly how Ben would have wanted.’
Juliet looked around the room at the unplastered walls and the lumpy section of wallpaper that Ben hadn’t quite got round to steaming off before the steamer went back to Wickes. The Test Match had got in the way.
‘How do you mean?’ she joked. ‘Finished by the year 2019 and still not varnished?’
There was a haughty pause on the other end. ‘Ben was a very reliable worker,’ huffed Ruth. ‘As all those clients who came to the funeral were happy to confirm. He wouldn’t have had the client list he did if he was unreliable, would he?’
‘I’m not saying that.’ Juliet closed her eyes. Oh Ben, jokes are now banned, she thought, into the ether. ‘It’s just, you know . . . our house never really got beyond the preparation stage. Probably because he was out doing extra work for his clients.’
And hadn’t that been a topic of discussion.
‘Ben worked hard to provide—’ Ruth began.
Juliet fell back onto apologies. ‘I’m sorry, that came out wrong. My brain’s all over the place. I’m not sleeping much.’
‘Have you been to the doctor? You need to keep asking but mine’s given me some very good pills that aren’t exactly tranquillisers . . .’
Juliet gazed blankly at the bargaineers while Ruth’s doctor speech washed over her. Like the bench dramas, it was familiar: their failure to understand, their refusal to hand out as many pills as Ruth felt she needed. Juliet didn’t want tranquillisers or anti-depressants. She didn’t want to feel normal.
‘. . . said exercise was as good as a course of treatment, but I can’t, with my knees, so I said, no, I’ve heard that there’s a new Xanax that you can take . . .’
Minton was staring at the door, even though there had been no knock, or ring of the bell. Juliet clicked her tongue and patted the seat, but he wouldn’t come.
She hoped this wasn’t the Greyfriars Bobby thing starting again. For months Minton had lain, awake, with his head on his paws by Ben’s work boots, still where he’d left them in the porch. Juliet hadn’t had the heart to move them, and Minton’s forlorn but hopeful loyalty had the power to reduce her to tears.
He looked round at the sound of her tutting, then looked back at the door. Juliet felt a shiver run across her skin, despite the warmth. What was he looking at?
Was it Ben? Coming back?
She got up from the chair, with Ruth still rambling on about what she’d told the doctor about their prescription charges. There was a cloakroom porch between the sitting room and the actual front door – marked up where Ben had planned to knock through, eventually – and when Juliet reached Minton at the back-room door, she felt a cold draught, as if she’d stepped into a cold spot. Just like they always said on psychic programmes.
Minton thrashed his tail in warning and Juliet’s pulse thudded in her throat. There’d been a time when she’d overdosed on those TV psychics. Hoping.
Are you here, Ben? she thought, with an irrational longing. Can you feel how much I miss you? Have I pulled you back with my wishing?
‘. . . Juliet? Juliet, did you hear what I just said?’
‘Ruth, there’s someone at the door,’ said Juliet. ‘I’m really sorry – I’ll call you back as soon as I can.’
She pressed the button on the portable phone and closed her eyes, breathing in all the smell memories she could while she pictured Ben’s laughing face, his crooked nose, the fine lines that had started to creep around his brown eyes. A wave of longing hit her as she actually smelled his scent – the mingled traces of sweat and earth and CK One.
And then she heard a man’s voice. For a brief second, Juliet felt light-headed with fear and hope and disbelief.
Then she recognised her mother’s voice talking back.
Disappointment swelled up in her stomach. Juliet opened the door into the hall and found the front door open. That was the draught, and the smell – fresh air blowing in through the coats and jackets, carrying tiny traces in the invisible stream.
Minton trotted forward, nosing at the door.
Why was the door open? Why hadn’t her mother come in? It wasn’t her style, not knocking and marching straight in there.
Juliet hugged her cardigan tighter around
her and stepped into the porch, not looking sideways at the familiar work jacket hanging near the door. ‘Mum?’ she called.
‘Oh, hello, love! I was just having a chat to Lorcan here about your building work.’
Diane was standing on the bottom step, nearly on the street. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and her eyes were bright. Juliet noticed she was wearing fresh lipstick, something she never usually bothered with.
The reason for this sparkle was leaning on next door’s front gatepost: Lorcan from the previous night, finishing off a round of toast. When he saw Juliet, his casual stance shifted and he straightened up. The confidence dropped off him. ‘Morning, so!’
Coco was lying down between them, obviously bored with the conversation, but when she saw Minton, her big ears pricked up and she swayed to her feet. Minton scampered out to sniff her.
‘Morning,’ said Juliet awkwardly. Maybe she’d been a bit rude last night, practically shoving him out of the house.
But he came on to you over the fuses, argued a voice in her head. What were you meant to say?
‘Your mam says you’re looking to start work on your house.’ Lorcan sounded interested, not as if he was pitching.
‘At some point, yes,’ Juliet started, but Diane leaped in with a smile.
‘Juliet doesn’t even have a shower, can you believe? Better to get on with it sooner rather than later, while the weather’s good, weren’t you saying, Lorcan? The survey they had done when they bought this place came back with some recommendations about the roof. And that was well over a year ago, Juliet. We’ve had a lot of bad weather since then, and you had that leak . . .’
‘Mum, it’s in hand.’ Juliet gave her mother a beady look. ‘And I thought Dad was speaking to Keith?’
‘Keith’s in Menorca with the family for a few weeks. Anyway, Lorcan’s going to come and give you a quote.’ Diane beamed with pleasure as she delivered her trump card. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Not a quote as such. Just an idea of what needs doing. I’ve a few days off between jobs,’ Lorcan explained, as Juliet’s jaw clenched in preparation for objecting. ‘Not saying you have to engage me for the work, like, but it’ll put you in the picture. Some of these cowboys’ll give you a whole list of nonsense and assume you don’t have the first clue.’
‘Lorcan’s been doing some amazing things next door while he’s staying with Emer,’ Diane went on, fluffing her fluffy hair even more. She hadn’t looked this animated since the book club reformed with her at the helm, thought Juliet. ‘So you can always go round and check out his handiwork! He’s been telling me about some lovely floating shelves he built.’
‘By magic?’ enquired Juliet. Fine, she needn’t take the come-on personally; he clearly charmed every woman he met as a matter of course.
Lorcan’s dark-blue eyes crinkled with amusement. ‘No, with sunken screws. You can pop in and have a look if you want. Emer won’t mind.’
‘Emer’s husband Alec knows Mark Knopfler!’ said Diane, as if she hobnobbed with rock bands on a daily basis. ‘And Emer used to be with the band!’ she added, with some euphemistic air-quotations that she must have picked up off Lorcan, because Juliet was pretty sure her mother thought ‘with the band’ meant playing the tambourine at the back.
Juliet made a face at her mother. No wonder there’d been a draught: the front door had clearly been open long enough for her to conduct a full interview. ‘So I hear.’
‘Not just Mark Knopfler,’ said Lorcan. ‘Other elderly rock stars are available. And don’t let Emer hear you say she was a groupie. But you get the picture.’
‘Emer’s from Galway,’ said Diane. ‘And she and Lorcan know each other from—’
‘Mum,’ said Juliet warningly. ‘At least wait until the poor man’s left before you dish all his secrets.’
‘I’m just filling you in,’ said Diane, with a final girlish fluff of the hair. ‘I’m sorry about my daughter,’ she added to Lorcan, in her most charming tone, ‘she’s not from the “cup of sugar” generation. If she’d only introduced herself earlier, she could have had you looking round ages ago!’
Juliet was too shocked to remind her that the Kellys had moved in during the hazy twilight zone between Ben’s death and his funeral. The removal van had blocked the road so the men with their funeral cars had had to park in Devonshire Street while they shifted it. Juliet had a vague memory of a big man with a beard apologising, then reversing into next door’s Citroën.
Lorcan seemed to sense her tetchiness. ‘Anyway,’ he said, looking quickly between them, ‘I’ve got to see a man about some paint. Shall we say ten tomorrow? We can be all done by lunch.’
‘That’d be fine,’ said Diane. ‘Ten it is.’
‘Grand.’ Lorcan raised his hand and headed off towards the van parked outside the Kellys’ house.
‘Ten it is,’ Juliet repeated in the same vaguely Irish accent Diane had been using. ‘Begorrah, begorrah.’
‘What?’
‘Copying his accent. Honestly.’
‘He seems rather charming.’
‘I know. He’s . . . very nice. That doesn’t mean you can just hijack someone and demand that they come round to deal with my decorating like I’m some kind of clueless child who can’t even call a builder.’
Diane looked outraged. ‘I did nothing of the sort. He was popping round himself to check on your fuses, actually.’
‘Was he?’
‘Yes. You didn’t tell me your fuses had gone. Why didn’t you call your father?’ Her face froze. ‘What else haven’t you been telling us about, Juliet? Is this house a death trap? Maybe he shouldn’t wait until tomorrow. Maybe this needs sorting right now!’
Diane turned to stop Lorcan getting into his van, but Juliet grabbed her arm. ‘No! My fuses are fine. I’ve been watching television. Come in, I’ll make you a cup of tea on my perfectly working kettle.’
‘No,’ said Diane firmly. ‘That’s why Coco and I are here, to get you away from daytime television and tea. You need to get out and about! Fresh air! With us – isn’t that right, Coco?’
They both glanced down at Coco. She didn’t look that desperate to hit the park. The gleam in her brown eyes said, ‘Sofa,’ to Juliet.
‘I wanted to make it up to her,’ confided Diane. ‘You know, not taking her out myself the other day.’ She fondled Coco’s soft head. ‘I missed our walk as much as she did. Get your coat on. Minton! Can you fetch your lead? Your lead? For a walk?’
She was using the sort of baby voice Juliet never ever used on Minton. She and Ben had an agreement that if they did talk to their dog, it would be in totally adult tones.
‘He doesn’t do tricks. He’s a terrier, Mum.’
Annoyingly, Minton then grabbed his collar from the hook by the door and proudly began to chew it, and at that point Juliet gave up.
‘He’s a very interesting man, that Lorcan. Did you know he used to be a roadie with Alec? And he and Emer used to play in a folk-rock group in Kilburn?’
‘That wouldn’t surprise me,’ said Juliet. ‘I hope they can play better than Salvador.’
‘Salvador?’
‘Emer’s son. He’s got a bass guitar and a tin ear.’
They were strolling down Longhampton’s heritage trail – or the canal towpath, as it had been quite recently – Minton on his long lead, sniffing and scuttling, while Coco ambled between them, more like a third lady than a dog.
‘You are going to let Lorcan have a look at the house, aren’t you?’ Diane said. ‘It would put my mind at rest. Knowing you had at least the kitchen nice and warm before winter.’
‘Yes, fine,’ said Juliet.
‘You’re just saying that to stop me nagging.’
‘You’re absolutely right.’ Juliet jerked Minton away from a suspicious clump of bushes, then added, ‘But I will let him look round. Don’t want to upset the neighbours.’
‘Good. I’m pleased.’ Diane sighed. ‘Then maybe you can make a list. Decide what to do first. Prior
itise the work. Then you’ve got options.’
‘Options?’
‘Well . . .’ Diane fiddled in her bag for Coco’s tennis ball. ‘You might decide to sell it. Move somewhere smaller and invest the money. Or stay.’
Juliet could tell she only said stay because she had to supply an extra ‘option’. She’d already ignored a lot of hinting from her dad about how much work the garden would be on her own – hints that were more about her being on her own, than the garden.
‘I don’t want to move.’ I don’t even want to turn it into a home Ben wouldn’t recognise, she added to herself.
‘Well, you can’t stay in a house with no proper shower, can you?’
Before Juliet could respond, Diane lobbed the ball, with an encouraging ‘Coco, go! Coco, go!’ Minton hared after it, needing no encouragement, and Coco lumbered after him, to show willing.
‘I’m glad I met Lorcan today,’ said Diane. ‘It makes me feel less worried about you, knowing that you’ve got someone decent you can call on next door, if there was an emergency. Well, like last night, in fact. He seems like a very nice man.’
Juliet shot a sidelong glance at her mother. She could nip that in the bud. ‘That’s what the Yellow Pages are for. Anyway, do you know he’s decent? He flirted with me – probably only came round as an excuse to chat me up. You might like that oily Irish charm, but I don’t. So don’t bother trying to set us up, just because he’s single and conveniently located.’
‘Oh! Juliet, I wouldn’t do that!’
Juliet clamped her lips together. Recently she’d noticed Diane and Louise, whether they were aware of it or not, auditioning friends and acquaintances for the role of ‘Man Who Gets Juliet Back into the World of the Living’. She really didn’t want one. It was just that she couldn’t imagine the idea of loving someone who wasn’t Ben; her heart felt as if it had been bulldozed. There was nothing there. Even her memories of loving Ben sometimes felt more like echoes of love, rather than the real, breathing thing.
Anyway, the same counsellor that told her it would take a year to recover also said that any post-traumatic emotion was just the heart trying to reboot itself, and therefore a recipe for disaster.