‘How long is a piece of string?’ He fetched a box of cereal down from the cupboard and handed it to her. ‘She’ll be back when it’s over. A week at the most, I would have thought. But don’t worry; we’ll manage fine.’ He chucked her under her chin. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Princess.’
Katya turned away, making a face. ‘I’m not your princess. I’m just me.’
She put on her summer uniform: red-and-white checked dress, white socks and red cardigan, and left at the same time as Luke, who had another interview. She almost reached the school gates but then Gabriella Brady gave her that wrinkled-nose look, like she was repulsive, that put ice in her veins, and she turned away at the last moment, pushing against the tide of children coming in the opposite direction. If she was in that mood, there was no point in Katya being at school. The weather was strange for a summer morning, not fresh but thick and humid. She pulled off her cardigan, tied it round her waist and stood on the corner of the street wondering where to go, then decided to take the bus into Clapham.
Clapham Junction was where Linda used to take her for a treat, usually on her birthday but once or twice when things were tough. She remembered they went after that time Linda’s boyfriend held her under water. They would visit the toy department in Arding & Hobbs and spend at least half an hour choosing something and then go to the café on the top floor where they would have a pot of tea and a slice of cake each – Katya loved having a pot all to herself. She always chose the coffee and walnut; Linda had the carrot cake. She would get her present out of the bag and take it out of its packaging. She remembered a particular Barbie doll, dressed in a suede miniskirt, checked shirt, cowboy hat and boots. Linda loved that one. She said it reminded her of a song called ‘Harper Valley PTA’. She promised to find it sometime and play it for Katya but she never did, so Katya still didn’t know what the doll had to do with it.
Standing opposite the shelves of dolls Katya was saddened to find that she didn’t feel like she had expected to feel, like she used to feel. It was completely different on her own; the sound, the smell, the lighting, all seemed harsher, intruding on her thoughts and blocking the magic, if it ever existed. Without money and without her mother to discuss each choice, the brightly boxed toys had lost their power to transport her.
People were looking, thinking she ought to be at school. She ran down the escalators and out into the street. The energy had gone, leaving her despondent. On the upper deck of the bus she turned her face to the window and wept silently as she passed her nursery school and the boundaries of the estate where she lived before Linda died. She was filled with longing, not for happier times, because there weren’t many, but for a place that at least felt like it belonged to her. There were bad men in those days but they had no interest in her; all they needed was alcohol, drugs and sex with her mother. She watched the sky darken and litter scud along the pavement. One day, when they were grown up, she was going to share a flat with Emily Parrish, somewhere north of the river, somewhere where bad things hadn’t happened. She tried to imagine that Emily was sitting beside her now and it worked so well that she almost turned to speak to her. But the seat was empty. A crash of thunder announced the onset of rain and within seconds the skies opened.
As they rumbled through Streatham she saw Maggie walk out of Boots and open a small purple umbrella, the sort that fitted in a handbag. The wind buffeted it but miraculously it kept its shape. Katya darted down the stairs and got off at the next stop. She followed Maggie along the busy high road, turning left into a residential street. Maggie walked almost to the end before she stopped outside a tall, red-brick Victorian house, dropped the umbrella at her feet and rummaged in her pocket for her keys. Katya waited, hidden in the alleyway between two blocks of flats. Then she went up to Maggie’s front door and pressed her finger against the bell marked Parrish.
29
Sunday, 4 April 2010
THE HOUSE IS so bright, the bougainvillea blazing against its walls, that I’m forced to shield my eyes when I get out of the car. We walk round the side – nobody uses the front door – and find the garden empty, the poolside deserted.
‘Hello!’ Mum calls. ‘Anyone in?’
‘In the kitchen,’ Amber shouts back.
We follow her voice. Josh is on the floor playing with a heavy-bottomed casserole dish and two wooden spoons. The girls are sitting at the table with their colouring-in books and felt-tip pens. Tom’s there too but he doesn’t look at me at first, and when he does I know something is wrong.
‘How was Sant Cugat?’ Amber asks.
She washes her hands and dries them on a tea towel, then scrapes the garlic she’s been crushing into a pan of frying onions. The smell that rises from it is redolent of the Mediterranean.
‘Very interesting,’ Mum says. ‘The monastery is named after a martyred saint. Apparently he was covered in vinegar and pepper and roasted alive.’
‘Ugh,’ Amber says.
‘Why was he?’ Polly says, looking dismayed.
‘Mum! I don’t think that’s very appropriate. She wasn’t talking about a person, Polly. She was talking about an animal. It’s called a martyr. They only eat them in this part of Spain.’
‘Wow,’ Tom says. ‘That’s going to make an interesting subject for show and tell.’
I glance at him and tilt my head slightly. He holds my gaze but doesn’t say anything.
‘Right,’ I say, bothered by his tone and determined to sound cheerful. ‘Well, if there’s nothing I can do, I’ll put the furniture back.’
‘We’ve already done that,’ Emily says.
‘Oh, OK. Did you see my phone? I think I left it on the sofa.’
Tom slips his hand into the pocket of his shorts and brings it out. He holds it out to me then puts it down on the side so that I can’t take it from him. I’m puzzled but I don’t want to question him in front of an audience. I swipe and glance at the screen automatically, and feel the blood drain from my face.
I look up at Tom, but he’s talking to Mum, asking her questions about the afternoon.
‘Can we talk?’ I say. My hands are shaking and there’s a huge lump in my throat. I’ve been unforgivably, catastrophically careless.
‘Not now.’
There’s a heaviness building in the air. At first I think it’s me, but the atmosphere has a sultry quality that reflects the mood of the house. It’s partly the weather, partly Tom’s clouded brow. I don’t think he wants me anywhere near him and it breaks my heart. I never loved David and I never fell out of love with Tom; the affair was a temporary blip.
I put olives and wine on the table and light the candles. A breeze touches my face and I look up.
‘There’s going to be a storm later,’ Mum says. There’s a question in her eyes. She feels it too.
‘Hope so,’ Amber replies.