‘That’s right, Red,’ Mary called and walked over to them. ‘I mentioned that I was a fan of Jean de Florette and he’s never seen it – can you imagine! – so, it’s on and we’re going. Unless…’ She had noticed the daggers that Bridget was glaring at her. ‘But, Red, if you have other ideas, we can go another time… it’s not a problem.’
‘We’re going,’ he said firmly. ‘I need to do something about my general philistinism. Man cannot live by Johnny Logan alone.’
‘But he can try,’ said Mary. She scurried over to me and busied herself sorting out a huge pile of empty Tupperware, ready to be returned to their owners. Bridget moved so she and Red were hidden from our prying eyes.
Clodagh came up with Mary’s tea brack, now wrapped in foil, for Red. As she was a few yards away from them, she realised that some kind of intimate discussion was going on and she did an abrupt about-turn and sidled to me, giving me a look. I nodded in return. She began picking up fluff and bits from the floor with her fingers, the two of us working in silence.
‘But…’ Bridget obviously was unused to men not falling at her feet. ‘Would you like to do something else? Something with me, perhaps? Something that doesn’t involve strange foreign films. I’m thinking cocktails, something to eat. Hang out in town.’
‘God, I’m so sorry, Bridget,’ he said quietly. ‘But I am way too old for all that.’ I kept sweeping the floor, pretending I wasn’t listening to every word, thrilled he wasn’t falling for Bridget’s obvious charms.
‘Sounds fun, though,’ Red said politely, speaking quietly, ‘I’m sure you know loads of people who would want to go.’
Bridget was looking utterly bewildered. ‘Really?’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Really. People not old like me,’ he said gently. ‘I’m ancient…’
‘But…’
He stood there with his massive pile of cartons and boxes like a contestant on an old kids’ show, trying not to drop a thing.
‘Right,’ she said slowly. ‘Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.’
‘I will…’ He glanced at me and saw me looking, widening his eyes a fraction.
‘So, I’ll be going.’ She shook her head, slightly, as though she couldn’t believe it. ‘Red,’ she said, ‘I have to ask you something.’
‘What?’
‘Are you gay?’ She was blinking at him, as though something just didn’t compute. ‘Because I can’t think of another reason. I mean, you disappeared last night, you don’t want to come out with me tonight. I just don’t… I just don’t understand. Normally… usually… this doesn’t happen.’
Clodagh and I, eyes wide, looked at each other. I was worried that Red would drop everything in a huge cacophony of old containers. But he laughed. ‘I’m not gay, Bridget,’ he said, lowering his voice so low, my ear drums were on the point of bursting with the effort of trying to hear.
She hesitated for a moment. ‘Let me know if you change your mind, okay?’ And she walked out, without saying goodbye to anyone else. Life lesson, I told myself. Even Bridget has to face rejection at least once.
He nodded. ‘I will. Thank you.’ Now, he was able to put down everything he was carrying on the table by the door while Clodagh scurried over with the cake. ‘Here’s Mary’s cake, Red’ she said. ‘She says it’s yours.’
‘Thank you, Clodagh,’ he said calmly as though he hadn’t just had a really unusual conversation, flattering and awkward and… weird. ‘What are you taking?’
‘A chocolate roulade,’ she admitted. ‘I’m going home to eat the whole thing with a cup of tea and an old film on the telly.’
‘What an afternoon,’ he laughed.
‘Sometimes, Red,’ she said, ‘life demands chocolate roulade and a black and white film. I’m hoping for something with Cary Grant.’
‘Anything with Bette Davis does that for me.’ He turned to me. ‘What about you Tab,’ he said. ‘Who does it for you?’
‘Um…’ But I knew exactly what film I could watch over and over again.
‘Listen,’ said Clodagh, ‘I’m going to head off. See you all soon.’ She put on her sunglasses and squeezed me goodbye. ‘You’re worth a million Bridgets,’ she said into my ear.
‘Thanks for coming.’
When she was gone, Red was still waiting for an answer. ‘In old films? Um, probably anything with Jack Lemmon. The Apartment?’
We’d watched together years ago, loving every moment of it. Every time I’d seen it since, I thought of Red. He nodded, slowly. ‘Great film.’
‘Great film,’ I echoed.
‘I’ll finish sweeping,’ he said, taking the broom. ‘Give me something to do.’ For a moment, he stood there and we looked deeply into each other’s eyes. It was all there, in a flash. I knew what he wanted. He wanted to know why. I would have wanted to know the same. All those years on, if it were me, it would have dug away until I got answer. We were going to have to talk. I was going to have to explain exactly why. ‘We should… I want…’ I began but my phone rang.
‘Do you mind if I take this? It’s my Rosie.’
I could barely make out what she was saying. She couldn’t speak and she was sobbing. She sounded terrified. I could feel the panic rise within me as well.
‘I’m coming home, Rosie! I’m coming home, sweetheart.’ Oh God, I needed to get home. My daughter needed me.
‘What’s wrong?’ Red said. ‘Is she all right?’
‘Rosie… she’s having another panic attack… I have to go…’ I suddenly remembered my car was it the garage that day having its annual check-up. ‘My car! I don’t have my car! I walked down…’ Tears were in my eyes as I started to panic, calculating how long it would take me to get home. Half an hour at a quick clip, if I was lucky.
‘I’ll drive you. Come on.’
*
I raced into the house to find Rosie was tucked into a ball, on the bottom step of the stairs in the hall, arms wrapped across her body, head on her knees. I sat on the step beside her and put my arm around her back. ‘It’s all right, my darling,’ I said, gently, softly, my head close to hers. ‘It’s all right, everything’s all right.’
Her head shook, no. No, everything is not all right.
‘Breathe, that’s it. Come on. Keep going.’ I could feel her back rise and fall, juddery and shuddery, jagged, tortured breathing. ‘It’s all right.’ Her heart was jumping around, I could feel it through her T-shirt, beads of sweat around her hairline, her breathing still short and panicky. And then she lifted her tear-streaked face, her eyes watery and bloodshot.
‘Mum…’ she began to cry. ‘It was so scary… I thought… I thought…’
‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ I soothed and shushed her, finding a rhythm to my voice, low and hypnotic while I could feel her breathing become calmer and more regular. ‘That’s it, that’s right…’
Eventually, she pulled away and lifted her face. ‘It hurts,’ she said.
‘What does?’ I said, scanning my beautiful girl’s face and smoothing her hair, tucking strands behind her ear, her skin was hot.
‘Everything. My chest. My whole body. And inside.’
‘You’re going to be all right, okay? I’m here now.’ My mind was working overtime, making plans for the next five minutes, thinking further ahead and trying to decide if sitting her exams was a good idea, could/ should she resit next year? Maybe I should give up my job and just be here. I’d been so selfish going out to work while she was struggling. Why hadn’t I done anything before?
‘It’s like a real thing,’ she said. ‘Everything inside is real.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Everything I think becomes real.’ She looked at me, willing me to understand.
‘Sweetheart…’
Before
Red and I swimming in the Forty foot, laughing. The sun overhead, one of those rare perfect summer days. Him swimming over to me and kissing me. ‘I love you, Tabitha Thomas,’ he said, ‘and I will love you forever.’
*
‘Rosie, listen to me. Maybe you should think about not doing your exams. Take a year off, you know, a breather.’
‘No way…’ there were tears in her eyes again. ‘I have to. You’re making a big deal out of it. Please? Anyway…’ But immediately tears began running down Rosie’s face. ‘I don’t know what to do… I can’t not do my exams. Nobody drops out.’