She disappears from the kitchen and moves up the stairs, faster than I’ve ever known. It’s only moments before she’s back, shaking a bottle of red nail polish in her wrinkled hand.
‘I save it for special occasions,’ she says, pushing me down onto a chair and taking one next to me.
I can do no more than watch as she takes her time, neatly coating each of my nails, blowing little streams of air over my fingers when she’s done. Sitting back in her chair, she tilts her head and I follow her gaze down to my fingers, wriggling them for a few moments before bringing them closer and running my eyes over them. ‘They’re very . . . red.’
‘It’s very classy. You can’t go wrong with red nails and a black dress.’ Her mind seems to wander, and I smile fondly at my grandmother, childhood memories of her and my gramps flooding my mind.
‘Do you remember when Gramps took us to the Dorchester for your birthday, Nan?’ I ask. I was ten years old and in complete awe of the affluence. Gramps wore a suit, Nan a floral two-piece skirt and jacket, and I was treated to a navy-blue dungaree dress, which was covered in large white polka dots. Gramps always loved it when the women in his life wore navy blue. He said it made our already stunning eyes look like bottomless pits of sapphires.
My grandmother takes a long pull of air and forces a smile, when I know that she really would like to shed a tear. ‘That was the first time I painted your nails. Granddad wasn’t happy.’
I return her smile, remembering all too well the stern word he had in her ear. ‘He was even less happy when you tinted my lips with your red lipstick.’
She laughs. ‘He was a man of principles and set firmly in his ways. He didn’t understand a woman’s need to cake her face in make-up, which made it all the more difficult for him to deal with your . . .’ She trails off and quickly starts screwing on the lid of the polish.
‘It’s okay.’ I place my hand over hers and give it a little squeeze. ‘I remember.’ I may have only been a small child, but I remember vivid shouting matches, slamming doors, and Gramps with his head in his hands on many occasions. I didn’t understand it at the time, but maturity has brought it all home, making everything painfully clear. That and the journal I found.
‘She was too beautiful and too easily led.’
‘I know.’ I agree, but I don’t think she was easily led at all. I’ve concluded that that’s what Nan has told herself over the years to deal with her loss. I’m happy to let her have that.
‘Livy.’ She shifts her hand carefully to avoid smudging my polish, so she’s the one gripping mine, and it’s a firm grip – a reassuring grip. ‘Everything about you is your mother, but not this.’ She taps her temple with her index finger. ‘You mustn’t be afraid of becoming her. It’ll just be another life wasted.’
‘I know,’ I admit. My own underlying reasons to avoid a repeat of my mother’s life are good enough, but remembering my grandparents’ devastation has only ever sealed it.
‘You’ve completely shut yourself down, Livy. I know I was, well, a little bit of a handful after your granddad died, but I’m fine now – have been for some time, sweetheart.’ She raises grey eyebrows at me, desperate for me to acknowledge it. ‘I’ll never get over losing them both, but I can still live. You haven’t experienced half of what life has to offer, Olivia. You were such a spirited child and teenager until you found—’ she halts, and I know it’s because she can’t say the words. She’s talking about the journal, the frighteningly vivid accounts of my mother’s life.
‘It was safer that way,’ I murmur.
‘It was unhealthy that way, sweetheart.’ She lifts my hand and kisses it lovingly.
‘I’m beginning to see that.’ I take a deep breath of confidence. ‘That man, the one who came for dinner . . .’ I don’t know why I don’t use his name. ‘He unearthed something in me, Nan. It’ll never go anywhere, but I’m glad I met him because he’s made me realise what life could be if I let it.’
I don’t divulge any more than that, and I also don’t confess that given the chance, I would have whatever that is with him, if only he would let me. It’s not the sex; it’s the connection, the feeling of complete refuge that beats anything I’ve attempted to achieve on my own. It defies sensibility, really. Miller Hart is irrational, arduous and temperamental, but the times between those irritating moments are inconceivably blissful and serene. I want to, but I have no faith in finding those feelings with another man.
Nan looks at me thoughtfully, keeping her firm grip of my hand. ‘Why will it not go anywhere?’ she asks.