19
Before going back to Eva’s shed, Frieda went shopping in the supermarket that stood where the swimming pool used to be. For herself, she bought ground coffee, milk, bread, butter, marmalade and six eggs. For her mother, she bought a bunch of dahlias, a packet of ginger snaps, some runny cheese (always a favourite of Juliet Klein’s), with crackers to accompany it, and two bottles of red wine.
The front door to her mother’s house was unlocked, and after she had rung the bell and got no reply, she opened it and went in, intending to leave the shopping in the hall. But she heard a noise coming from the living room: the television was on. Frieda put her head round the door. On the plasma screen a chef – whose face was vaguely familiar – was making something with noodles. They were heaped on a plate, looking like a nest of worms. Juliet was sitting on the sofa, her stockinged feet up on a small stool, her head tipped back and her eyes slightly open. She was snoring. One of the buttons of her shirt had come undone so Frieda could see the edge of her bra. A tiny thread of saliva ran down her chin. Frieda watched her for several seconds, frowning. As quietly as she could manage, she put down the shopping and left the house, pulling the door to with a small click. Her mobile vibrated in her pocket and, taking it out, she saw that Sandy was calling. She let it to go voicemail.
In her shed, she made herself a mug of tea. There was a little table that acted as a desk at the window and she sat at it and took out her notebook. She was looking out over Eva’s garden and could see straight into the kitchen. In fact, as she sat there, Eva came into view, running her hands through her hair. She started watering the plants on the windowsill.
Frieda moved the table away from the window. Now all she could see was the wall. She read through her notes and then she made a list:
PEOPLE TO CONTACT
Detective Tom Helmsley (ask Karlsson to help?)
Dennis Freeman (find out who/where he is from TH)
Michael Carrey (ditto)
SF: who is he? Ask TH
Chas Latimer
Jeremy Sutton
Vanessa Bussock
Ewan Shaw
Lewis Temple
Head of Braxton High (find out who Becky’s closest friends were)
She looked at it, considering. She drew a tree down one side. Another name came to her – a man standing by the whiteboard, his poster-boy face and flashing smile, hair down to his collar. She added his name: Greg Hollesley, drama teacher and head of her year in 1989. She added leaves to her tree.
Apart from asking Karlsson to help her track down Tom Helmsley, she had little idea of how to find these people who had once been so important to her. She typed Chas (Charles) Latimer into Google and a stream of names filled her screen: Chas Latimer the actor and Chas Latimer the businessman and Charles Latimer the sculptor and Charles Latimer the dietician, who could help you lose a stone in a fortnight, Charles C. Latimer the yachtsman … None of the photographs seemed right – but what would Chas look like twenty-three years later? Would his smooth face have become jowly, his knowingly charming smile faded into something more sober, his blue-black hair greying, receding? She stared at the list of names: none of them was uncommon enough to find by a simple search.
A message pinged on to her email from Chlo?. Its subject was ‘Help!!!!!!!’ She opened it. ‘Aunty Frieda!’ it read. ‘I think I have genital warts! What should I do?’ Frieda made an exasperated face at the wall. ‘Go to your GP or a sexual health clinic,’ she wrote. ‘They’re contagious and very common.’
Then she stood up and went into the garden, where the light was fading into dusk. Eva waved at her from the kitchen, then came out to join her. ‘Have you got everything you want?’ she asked.
‘Yes, thank you. What do you grow?’ She gestured at the vegetable patch, bare except for some winter cabbage and a couple of butternut squashes, uprooted but lying on the soil.
‘Oh, all sorts. Beetroot, potatoes, broad beans, sugar snaps, artichokes. And chillies in the greenhouse,’ she went on enthusiastically. ‘I’ve become a chilli obsessive. Gardening’s good for the soul.’
‘I can imagine. But isn’t pottery as well?’
‘And making bread. Whatever else happens, at the end of the day you can say you’ve made something.’
Frieda looked at Eva. Her hair was loose and slightly wild, the glorious red faded into something more subdued; her freckles, which had been so pronounced when she was a teenager, had become faint splotches on her pale skin. The hem of her long skirt was torn and muddy. ‘That offer of dinner,’ she said. ‘Is it still on?’
A smile illuminated Eva’s face. ‘I’d love that. There’s nothing I like more than cooking for other people. I can’t quite believe you’re back, Frieda.’
‘I know the feeling.’
‘Come and knock at the door at seven thirty,’ said Eva. ‘I’m vegetarian, just so you know what to expect.’
When Frieda arrived at Eva’s back door with a bottle of red wine, the kitchen was full of fragrant steam. Eva, wrapped in a white apron, with pink cheeks, greeted her exuberantly – as if somehow this dinner put them on a different, more intimate footing. She’d clearly been busy. There were pans bubbling on the hob, and on the table three different salads, in brightly painted bowls that Frieda assumed Eva had made.
‘Carrot and walnut with a spicy Japanese dressing,’ she said, pointing. ‘Beetroot and celeriac with horseradish. Green salad.’
‘Lovely,’ said Frieda, made oddly melancholy at the effort that had gone into the evening.
Hanging from the beams were strings of chillies, evidently grown in Eva’s greenhouse. There were jars of home-made preserves and pickles on the shelves. Eva saw her looking around and grimaced. ‘It’s what I do,’ she said. ‘I make everything, as if my life depended on it. I make my own pots. I make most of my clothes, as you can probably tell. I cook enough food and grow enough vegetables to feed a large family, except, of course, I don’t have a family.’
‘Did you want to?’
‘Same old Frieda. No nonsense. Yes, I think so. You don’t have children, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Did …?’
‘No.’
‘Anyway, it’s not too late. Let’s have some of that wine.’
She uncorked the bottle and poured a generous amount into two glasses. ‘To reunion s,’ she said, raising hers.
‘Talking of which, I might just go to the school one, if I’m around.’
‘That’ll be such fun. Imagine all their faces when you walk through the door.’
‘I don’t want to. That might stop me going.’
‘We’ll go together. It’s always a bit nerve-racking, arriving on your own.’
‘Who do you think will be there?’
‘Who knows? The weirdest people turned up at the last one. Actually, I know who knows. Vanessa’s one of the organizers.’
‘Vanessa? You mean Vanessa Bussock.’
‘As was. She married Ewan.’
‘Ewan Shaw?’
‘Yes.’
‘They were going out together, but I had no idea they were married.’
‘Well, how would you?’
‘Do they live round here?’
‘They certainly do. They have a house on the road towards Bybrook. I see them from time to time. She’s got all mumsy, he’s lost some of his goofiness, though not so much, but otherwise they seem pretty much like they always were.’
‘Maybe I’ll get in touch.’
‘Really? Well, I can give you their details.’
‘Who else do you see?’
‘There’s Maddie, of course.’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, God, did you hear about Maddie? Her daughter killed herself.’
‘I did hear that,’ said Frieda.
‘Isn’t that the most awful, awful thing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Becky. Apparently she was going through a rough time, but it was so terrible. She wasn’t even sixteen. The whole school’s in shock. The funeral’s next week, I think.’
She poured them more wine, then got up to ladle garlic mushroom soup into green-glazed bowls.
‘Who else still lives round here?’ asked Frieda.
‘There’s Lewis. Your boyfriend. After Jeremy, of course.’ Her voice became wistful. ‘I haven’t seen him for ages.’
It felt like Frieda’s old memories were being dragged out into the light and trampled on. When she spoke, she had to control her voice. ‘Do you know what he does or where he lives?’
‘He was an electrician, last time I heard, with a company in Oxley. He’s got a small flat on the edge of Braxton near the old barracks, or had. He had a son but doesn’t live with the mother.’ Eva stirred her bowl of soup, then said suddenly, ‘I had a thing with him.’
‘With Lewis?’
‘After you disappeared.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘I felt awful. I think he did too. It was like we were both cheating on you, even though you had gone without a word.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Eva.’
‘It does. You were my best friend and I slept with your boyfriend.’
‘He wasn’t my boyfriend by then. We’d split up.’
‘It felt like he was. He was besotted with you. He was only with me because he was so angry and upset and confused. You’ve no idea what he went through but it still doesn’t make it right.’
‘Twenty-three years ago you had a fling with my ex-boyfriend, after I’d left. It doesn’t matter.’
‘Every so often I get this flush of shame.’
‘What are you ashamed of?’
‘It felt like I’d betrayed you. Though, mind you, you betrayed me, too, by going off like that.’
‘Maybe that’s why you did it.’
‘No. It was because I’d always fancied him rotten. Didn’t you know?’
Frieda thought back, trying to part the layers of the past to see that time more clearly. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘God, the intensity of the young,’ said Eva. She gave a small laugh but still looked sad. ‘Nothing’s ever like it again.’ She shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen him for ages. I think he went off the rails.’
‘He was already going off the rails when I knew him. Maybe we all were, without knowing it.’
Eva cleared the bowls and put an aubergine and red pepper flan on the table. ‘Help yourself,’ she said, gesturing. ‘And to the salads. I’ve made too much of everything, as usual.’
Without asking, she topped up their glasses. ‘So you’re a therapist,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘You must hear some strange stories.’
‘Strange stories, everyday stories.’
‘Do you help?’
‘I do my best. I try to help people take control of their own lives, to find their own voices again. That’s something.’
‘Do you still ride?’ Eva asked suddenly.
Frieda was taken aback. She hadn’t sat on a horse for twenty-three years, and felt slightly unnerved by being with someone who knew these things about her. She had become used to living among people who had no access to her old self, and now it felt to her as if she had left a front door unlocked, a window wide open. ‘No. I don’t ride.’
‘You used to love it.’
‘I live in London now,’ Frieda said, as if that was the end of the matter. ‘This is delicious, by the way.’
‘Good. Chas Latimer.’
‘What about him?’
‘Vanessa said he might be coming. Wouldn’t that be odd?’ She gave a giggle, followed by a delicious shiver.
‘Very odd,’ Frieda said drily.
‘I seem to remember you weren’t so keen on him.’
‘No.’
There were bright stars and a low moon that looked bigger than usual, though Frieda knew that was only an optical illusion, and the wind gusted through the trees. She had forgotten how dark it was in the countryside, and how quiet. She let herself into the shed. There was another message from Sandy on her phone, but again she ignored it. Instead she phoned Karlsson.
‘Frieda? How’s it going?’
‘I think I’m homesick,’ she said. ‘There are no street lamps and no buses. Can you do me another favour?’
‘All right.’
‘Before knowing what it is?’
‘What is it?’
Frieda told him, and he said that he would find out about Tom Helmsley first thing in the morning.
Then she listened to her messages from Sandy. In the first, he just said her name a few times, interrogatively and leaving pauses between each word as if she could hear him but was refusing to pick up. In the second, he said, ‘We have to talk, Frieda.’ She could hear the distress in his voice and also the rumble of traffic in the distance, and pictured him standing in some doorway, cold and wretched. She could see his face, grim with grief. ‘I love you,’ he added, sounding almost angry. ‘It can’t end like this. Please call.’
She rang but it went to voicemail and she didn’t leave a message. What was there to say?