I used to worry that Neeve’s apparent allergy to a steady love interest was Richie’s fault. Had his serial abandonments damaged her ability to trust? Now I see I had it entirely wrong – what eejit would open themselves up to all that potential pain? Neeve is clearly far better off dedicating herself to her work and her friends, thereby keeping her heart safe.
I wish I’d had the sense to stick to the equilibrium I’d found after Richie had left me. It’s wrong to say I regret meeting Hugh because Kiara is his great gift to me, but if I’d stayed as the self-reliant person I’d once been, I wouldn’t feel the agony I’m currently in.
Kiara bursts into my room. ‘Mum, come! With your sewing kit!’
It’s like being a paramedic. Neeve’s caught the heel of her shoe in the hem of her dress and torn a couple of stitches and she’s as distraught as if there’d been a multiple car pile-up.
We fix her up, then she’s good to go, groomed and cool. The dress, an asymmetrical black-and-white-lace affair by Self-Portrait is the fanciest thing she’s ever blagged. The shoes, sequined black sandals are Dolce knock-offs and her black velvet choker is a copy of the Marc Jacobs one I’m currently lusting after. Her fabulous thick red-gold hair is piled on top of her head, adding about another four inches to her height.
‘Mum, am I okay?’ Her anxiety is tragic.
‘You’re stunning.’ But the long and the short of it is, I don’t trust Richie Aldin not to snap out of his hand-wringing guilt trip and revert to cruel, angst-free type. All I can do is hope he doesn’t hurt her.
For the millionth time I hit Refresh. Still nothing. It’s way after midnight and I’m waiting for Sunday’s papers to come online. The thought of going upstairs and enduring a second sleepless night is so unbearable that pretending I’m working makes me feel a little less pathetic.
The worry is always that, despite their assurances, the Sunday Times won’t run the Matthew shots. Until it’s actually happened, you cannot trust any newspaper to fulfil their promises. Anything could scupper this – internal politicking, the whim of an editor or, of course, some disaster.
I take a swig of wine, then a swig of Gaviscon, hit Refresh once more and, finally, here are tomorrow’s papers. Matthew is on page five, a great spot that guarantees maximum visibility. Sixteen of the twenty photos are up online, as well as a positive written piece, detailing the kids’ warm clothing, Matthew’s evident affection and how happy the three of them look together. Best of all, there’s no mention of Sharmaine.
Then a quick scan of Ruthie’s big interview: there are lots of allusions but no hard facts. I’m happy to declare this weekend’s media a draw.
63
Monday, 7 November, day fifty-six
On Monday night Mum nabs me, yet again, for Pop-sitting. She looks radiant, really very beautiful. The new hair is wonderful and she’s wearing a gorgeous pair of earrings. Well, gorgeous for her, some sort of blue stone surrounded by tiny diamonds. They wouldn’t be for me in a billion years. ‘Fancy earbobs,’ I say.
‘Some shop sent them to Neeve, for me! For free! All I have to do is Instagram them.’
‘You’re not on Instagram.’
‘I am now. Neeve set me up. She does it all, takes the photos and that. But it’s tremendous fun! I can’t tell you how happy I am, Amy. In a way I feel like I’ve only just started living. Not just the hair and the vlog and my new red nails.’ She flashes me her two-week manicure. ‘But all of it. The new people and the gin-and-tonics and just everything.’
Something prickles in me, the same instinct that had stirred in the recent past. ‘Tell me more about these new friends of yours. They all have spouses with Alzheimer’s, you say? And would any of these new friends be men?’
She colours. She actually does. ‘Of course there are men. The law of averages says that.’
‘And how many of these men come along on a night out?’
She opens the front door and pokes her head into the cold night. ‘Is that my taxi?’
I take a quick glance. There’s nothing out there. ‘So how many men come on these gin-and-tonic nights?’
‘How did Neevy get on the other night with that waste of space Richie Aldin?’
She got on great. I suppose. She’d burst into my room at about three a.m., buzzing with happiness because she’d met loads of his friends and been introduced as his daughter.
‘Mum, stop trying to distract me. So tell me, the gin-and-tonic men?’
‘It’s nothing like that, love. It’s just a bit of fun. And gin-and-tonics, which are my new favourite thing.’ Then, ‘Amy.’ She takes my wrist in a surprisingly strong grip and looks me in the eye. ‘Pop, most of the time, he’s in the land of the bewildered but there are moments when he’s still all there. He’s the man I married, and even though I find things hard going, I’d never hurt him.’
Instantly I’m sorry. Mum’s life has been a sad one but finally she’s having fun and, whatever she’s up to with her ganky earrings and gin-and-tonics, it’s her business.
64
Tuesday, 8 November, day fifty-seven
Today my tube from Heathrow on the Piccadilly line stops in a tunnel for twenty unexplained minutes, and I arrive late at Home House.
‘Too much to hope that Matthew Carlisle isn’t here yet?’ I ask Mihaela, the receptionist.
‘He’s here,’ she says. ‘And looking lush. In the small meeting room on the third floor.’
I rush upstairs, all apologies, and Matthew Carlisle stands up, then leans down to kiss my cheek. He’s smooth-jawed and smells like a mojito. Guerlain Homme, if I’m not mistaken. ‘Um, hi.’ This is the first time I’ve seen him since that unsettling sexy dream and it’s an effort to deal with the real man instead of the cad who had seduced me in a Marks & Spencer’s cubicle.
Lurking behind him is his brother. At this stage it no longer seems perplexing that he’s always in attendance. No fear of Dante trying to kiss me, which suits me fine. Instead he gives a brusque nod and a terse ‘Amy’.
‘Dante,’ I reply, and despite everything, it gives me a small squeeze of childish pleasure to see him wince. I will never call him Dan.
‘So?’ Matthew looks happy and hopeful. ‘You think the photos worked?’
‘There was no mention of Sharmaine,’ I say. ‘The shift has definitely started.’
‘Safe to say we’ve turned a corner?’ Matthew is bright-eyed.
Quickly I begin managing expectations. ‘Those photos were a very good start, Matthew. But remember what I keep saying. This will be long and slow.’
‘Long and slow?’ He fixes me with his liquid eyes. And, honestly, I don’t know if I’m still in the dream hangover, but that sounds suggestive. ‘Okay.’ He’s suddenly mournful. ‘So be it.’
I clear my throat and find my groove. ‘Building on those photos, I’ve tickets for you and your kids for the preview of the new Disney film on Thursday evening. No need to organize paparazzi, they’ll have official photographers. Also local news cameras, so say a few words. I’ve prepared some innocuous remarks. Don’t deviate too far.’
‘Okay.’
‘How about a trip to Lapland early December? To meet Santa. You and the kids?’
‘Um, sure.’
‘The One Show will have you on to talk about it.’ I run through various other proposals, all part of the mosaic that will eventually form the new, rebranded Matthew Carlisle.
‘Fine, and now I really have to go to work,’ Matthew said.
‘Okay. See you both on Friday night in Brighton.’
65
Thursday, 10 November, day fifty-nine
‘Deserted beach, Koh Samui’ is the caption on the latest photo on Raffie Geras’s timeline. Hugh and Raffie are sitting on soft white sands. She’s snuggled between his legs, her back against his stomach, his arms tightly around her. They’re both laughing – and why wouldn’t they be, considering their proximity to crystal clear turquoise water and thickets of palm trees?
Mind you, their beach can’t have been that deserted if they managed to get someone to take the photo. This gives me a sour satisfaction until I realize the camera probably just had a timer.