Part four March 2009

Chapter Thirty-Eight

It is cold and dark in the room, and as I look up, my neck, shoulders and legs ache from the tense position I've been in over the last hour. The only point of light is the lamp next to me. It shines on the yellowing pages of the diary. Everything else around it is black. It is almost a surprise to me, when I put my hands up to my cheeks, to find that tears are running down them.

The shadow of my hands makes the light flicker on the brick walls, and I jump. It is very quiet, but the room seems to be crowded, with voices, people . . . I shiver and stand up. I wish I wasn't here. I wish I was somewhere with someone I know. Someone who loves me, someone who I could turn to and say, my God, this is horrible.

I can't. I'm all alone, and her voice is echoing in my head. I want to see her. More than anything, suddenly. I didn't know her before, so I couldn't miss her, and this is what's making me cry. I love this bold, intelligent, charming, eccentric, eager young girl, whose scrawling pages in front of me are so slapdash and immediate it's as if she's just run out of the room. I can see why Guy fell in love with her. I wish I had known her. I wish I could know what she might have done next, had she lived. There is something so hopeless about her last day alive; a girl worn out by the adults around her, by the life she had to live, and not even sixteen.

When she died, she left them all behind, and I realise, now, that they have been preserved like that, all of them - Mum, Archie, Louisa, Granny, Arvind - kept in a drawer along with the diary, not allowed to live the lives they wanted. Even Guy, who married someone else and got away from them, is a curiously reduced version today of the person he was in the diary. Poor, poor Guy. At the thought of him, my heart clenches and my eyes sting with fresh tears. Now I understand, now I know why he insisted I call him after I'd finished it. How must it have been for him, reading that diary after all these years, having tried to forget her, never having known why she died? To find out about his brother like that, to . . . oh, it's so sad. The whole thing is just so sad. I think of Mum. I wonder where she is. Oh, Mum. I'm sorry.

Memories start rushing back to me as I stand up slowly, my legs aching from sitting still in the cold, dark room. Of me on Granny's knee, teaching me to play the piano. Letting me sip her Campari and soda while she put on her earrings, dabbed scent onto her slender wrists. And her beautiful face viewed through the carriage window, waving enthusiastically at me as each summer train pulled into Penzance station and I thought -I thought - I was home, with my real mother, not living this sham life with a mother who forgot where my school was and didn't like birthday parties.

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My granny, my favourite person in the world: was this really her, this woman who tries on her daughter's clothes, who sleeps with young men, who has to have attention and approval and glamour and beauty and simply takes it if she doesn't have it? I look down at the diary. Yes, yes, it was.

And that furious, awkward, eccentric and beautiful teenager, who has lived in the shadow of this ever since, suspected, mistrusted, abandoned by the people who should have most been looking out for her, was that really my mother?

Yes, I guess it was.

The ring, Cecily's ring, is still around my neck. She put it on the day she died. Granny wore it every day since, and suddenly it feels as though it's choking me, and my heart feels as though it's being squeezed. I rip it off my neck, almost panting. I switch the kettle on and stare at nothing. My breathing gets more rapid as I think it all through, and there are so many things that make sense. Like why Mum hates going down to Summercove, why she and Granny didn't get on, why Mum and Archie are so close, and why kind, caring Louisa is baffled by her cousins and their behaviour, always has been.

And then there are things I just don't understand. Like how Granny could sit in a room with the Bowler Hat, knowing what they did. Like how Mum could stand it. And Arvind - does he know? Does Archie? Does Louisa really not know what her husband has done?

I think about the Bowler Hat, the way he's present and yet not really present at everything, this cipher. This empty, attractive casing of a man. Forty-six years ago, he was the same, just a younger, priapic version of that. I wonder if he connects the two, if he knows what he's done?

The kettle sounds louder and louder, the whistling steam rising up and moistening my face. I stare into the white-grey plumes.

How could Granny live there year after year, knowing she was as good as responsible for her daughter's death? Cecily herself said the steps were slippery, and they'd mentioned it a couple of times, so why didn't she or Arvind get them fixed? How could she let people think her own daughter might have been responsible for her sister's death? How could she . . .

And I can't think about it any more.

I go into the bedroom. The camomile tea tastes like cardboard. The flat is silent. I climb into bed. I pick up Cecily's diary again and flick through it - it seems the only real, concrete thing in my life. Words, phrases, jump out at me.

Mummy doesn't like Miranda being beautiful.

Dad has lived most of his life in another country. It's a part of me, and I don't know it.

We're not the family I thought we were.

I really can't write what I saw.

I think it's too late, for him and for me.

I think it's too late, for him and for me . . .

I can't read the last couple of pages again. They're too painful. I stare at the diary, and the words swim in front of my eyes, and soon I slide into sleep, propped up by pillows.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

That is Friday. On Monday morning, I wake up and I know I can't stay in the flat by myself any more. It's not just the loneliness: I've been lonely for a while, I realise. It's that every time I look around there's something else to remind me of something I don't want to be reminded of. It just holds bad memories for me, as if sitting there in the darkness as I read Cecily's diary somehow released them all. I can't do it any more. Perhaps I was holding on to some tiny hope that Oli and I might get back together again, but I know now that's never going to happen; this has clarified everything. We need to sort the flat out, and we need to crack on with the divorce. First things first, I need to get out of here. I ring up Jay, and ask to stay with him.

The great thing about Jay is he doesn't ask questions, and he doesn't fuss. He is waiting there when I turn up at his flat in Dalston an hour later, with a hastily packed suitcase. He gives me a cup of coffee and makes me some toast.

'I just don't want to be there any more,' I say. I wipe a tear away from my cheek.

'Why now?' he says. 'I mean, you've been on your own there for a while.'

I don't want to tell him about the diary. If I tell him, he'll want to read it, and he'll find out about our grandmother. Now I can see what Mum has been doing all these years, in her own way: protecting Granny's reputation, for the sake of others. We are sitting in his light, roomy, first-floor Georgian flat, just off De Beauvoir Square, and as I look out of the window I notice the trees have buds on them. There are no trees on my street.

'It just - got a bit much,' I tell him. 'It's pathetic, I know.' Jay makes a little sound at the back of his throat, and he shakes his head. 'Oh, Nat. You poor thing.' He shakes his head. 'Oli. Wow, that guy. What a tool.' He sees my expression. 'Sorry.'

'He's not a tool,' I say. 'It's more than that, it took me a while to see he wasn't coming back and it's over, and yep - now I know it, I just can't be there any more. I needed a bit of limbo there, I guess. But it's over now. We need to rent it out and I'll move somewhere cheaper. I just needed to see it, that's

all.'

'Stay here,' Jay says. 'As long as you want. I've got the study, but I'm working in the Soho office mostly these days.' I hold up a hand to protest. 'Nat,' he says patiently. 'I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean

it.'

I know he wouldn't, and I nod. 'Thanks, Jay.'

'I know it won't be as nice as Princelet,' he says. 'The bathroom's got damp and it's well shabby round here, not like you're used to.' He smiles, and I grin at him.

'Believe me, it's nicer,' I say. I raise my coffee cup to him. 'Thanks again. Seriously.'

'No problem,' he says. He pauses. 'Dad rang me last night. You spoken to your mother yet?'

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On Saturday and Sunday, I rang Mum. I rang Guy first, but then I rang Mum. No answer from either of them. I left tentative messages, but it's hard to know what to say. 'Hi . . . ! I'd love to speak to you . . . ! I . . . I read the diary . . . Give me a call . . . !'

What do I do next? I don't want to rock the boat. I can't do anything for the moment, so I smile at him, and try not to look mad.

'I left her a message again this morning,' I say. 'I'll call her again, later on.'

'That's good,' Jay says firmly. He is pleased. I am touched by his concern for her. It strikes me once again how craven I was, willing to believe what Octavia told me over what Jay believes. All he knew from Archie is that Miranda is above reproach, and he listened to what his father said. He may not agree with him one hundred per cent, but he's his father and Jay respects him.

He gets up. 'Look, I'd better go to work,' he says. 'You know where everything is. Do you want me to help you get more stuff from the flat this evening?'

'That'd be great,' I say. I chew my lip. 'I guess I'd better call Oli, let him know too. We should start sorting it out . . .'

'I bet he'll want to move back in,' Jay says perceptively. 'It's much more him than you, that

place.'

I think of the money Oli gave me as a loan. Because perhaps this would be the perfect way to pay him back, temporarily. Strange, strange, I think, that it was only Friday morning when I woke up and he was there with me, and we had sex, and then I knew, undoubtedly, that it was for the last time, and that it's over. It's over when you don't feel anything. It's over when you don't want to live there any more. It's over when you want the other person to be happy more than you want them in your life. Sitting in Jay's living room, which is decorated - a loose term - with nothing more than slightly peeling oatmeal wallpaper, a few photos, and many video games scattered across the floor, I feel more at home here, on the comfy, worn blue sofa, than I have in my own home for a long time.

'You're right. He's welcome to,' I say, and I mean it. 'Thanks again, Jay.' I lean forward and pat

his arm.

''S'OK, like I say,' he says simply, getting up. 'We're family.'

I smile as I watch him go into his room and grab his stuff. I pick up the phone again and call my mother. The phone rings, and my heart starts thumping. But instantly, it's diverted to the answerphone. I call Guy again, too. Same thing. I sigh, and I go into Jay's small study and unpack my stuff. It's a meagre collection of things: my sketchbooks, a pair of jeans, a couple of tops and cardigans, pyjamas, a few knickers, a sponge bag with toothpaste and the like in it, and a little bag with Cecily's necklace. Right at the bottom, her diary.

Jay is whistling in the other room as he gets ready for work. It's just an ordinary day, I suppose. I feel as though everything has changed: more than that, that the world as I know it has fallen down around my ears. But you still have to go on, you can't just lie on the sofa staring at the wall-paper, tempting as that might be. I've done that too, and I know it doesn't accomplish anything. So I put Cecily's diary, my sketchbooks and the necklace into my shoulder bag. Jay emerges with his backpack on. 'I'm going to the studio,' I say. 'I'll walk with you.'

'Great,' Jay says. He jangles his keys. 'Tell me, how's my friend Ben? I was thinking, we should all

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go out one evening, don't you think?'

'Oh . . .' I say. 'Yeah. That'd be great.'

Jay looks suspiciously at me. 'What's up? You two had a row?'

'God, no,' I say, putting my coat on. I put my phone in my pocket, and that's when I see the text message.

Had to dash to Morocco unexpectedly for work! Know we need to talk darling. Just explained it all to Guy. He is around while I'm away. Perhaps you cld talk to him? See you for foundation launch? Do love you darling - Mum x

'It's from Mum,' I tell Jay. 'How is she?'

'She's in Morocco. She's gone to bloody Morocco.' She'd rather call Guy and tell him where she's going, Guy who she supposedly hates, than me.

We go down the stairs and Jay opens the front door. 'Oh yeah, Dad mentioned she was thinking of going there,' he says.

'She could have told me she was going,' I mutter. I stare at the phone again, wanting to scream. Yes, I do want to talk to Guy, Mum. But I'd much rather talk to you. Stop running away from me.

Chapter Forty

When I reach the studio there is a new receptionist, a Breton-striped-top-wearing boy, very skinny, with a mop of curly hair on top of his head, shaved at the sides. He is wearing the obligatory thick black glasses that all boys and girls in East London must wear, from Tania to Arthur to Tom and Tom, the two gay guys who run Dead Dog Tom's, the hottest new bar in Shoreditch just down the road from the studio. I sometimes wonder what would happen if someone wore frameless steel Euro-style glasses in Shoreditch / Spitalfields - would an invisible forcefield shatter them?

'Hiyaa,' he says, not looking up from his phone. 'How're you.'

This isn't a question, more a rapped-out courtesy. 'Hi. Where's . . . Jocasta?' I say. 'Or Jamie?'

'I'm Jamie's like brother?' the beautiful boy says. 'Dawson? She's not well today, her skanky boyfriend gave her food poisoning? So I'm filling in for her?'

I can't keep track of Jamie's love life. I thought she was with the dodgy pockmarked Russian

millionaire and surely millionaires don't get food poisoning. 'Oh, right,' I say.

'Lily's having an open studio this afternoon, so she asked Jamie to get someone to cover for her.'

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Dawson's eyes shift away from me, and then his face lights up. 'Hey, you!' 'Hey,' says a voice behind me. 'Oh. Hi, Nat.'

I swing round, my heart thumping loudly. There, in the doorway, is Ben, and again I adjust to the new person he is, shorn of hair. The person I kissed three nights ago. I stare at him, drinking in the sight of him.

'Hi, Ben,' I say. 'Hey,' he says, taking his backpack off his shoulders. He barely glances in my direction. 'Hi, Dawson,' he says. 'How's it going? What are you doing here?'

He high-fives Dawson, who smiles at him and stands up, excited. 'Ben, my man. Good to see you! Hey, thanks for those links! I checked out that photographer dude, he was amazing? That shit of those dead trees, and the foil - it was so . . .' He shakes his head. 'Sorelevant, you know?'

'Good, good.' Ben is nodding. 'How's Jamie?'

'Good, she's good. Well, she's not, she's being sick every five minutes, but she's good otherwise.'

Ben grimaces. 'Oh, dear. Tell her I said get well soon, and she should definitely lose the boyfriend.' He turns to me. 'Hey.'

I lean forward. 'Yeah. So—'

'See you later,' he says, and turns away, making for the stairs.

I follow him. 'Ben,' I say, as we curl up to the first floor, out of earshot. 'How - how are you?' He nods vigorously. 'I'm good, good.'

'Look—' I take a deep breath. 'I'm sorry about the other night.'

A small muscle on his cheek twitches in Ben's lean face. 'Yeah, no problem.'

'I meant to text you . . .' I say lamely. 'To apologise for running off like that. But I . . .'

I trail off. He is still as granite, watching me. Was it really Thursday that we kissed? It seems so long ago. He seems like a different person, tall and forbidding. He's hugging his backpack to him. 'I didn't text you either,' he says. 'It's fine. Look, I'd better get on . . .'

'Fine, of course,' I say. I feel almost winded in the face of his hostility, it's like running into a brick wall. 'See you - see you in a bit.'

I go into my studio and shut the door, trying to breathe normally, but my chest is rising and falling alarmingly quickly. I lean against the door, listening to the silence, and then I shake myself down, go over to the counter, and get my stuff out. I write my list for the day, get out my sketchpad; sort out some more filing, turn on my laptop. I flick through the post. The details of my little stand at the trade fair in June have come through; I can see my position on the map, and it's OK. There's a sale on at the place I get my clasps, hooks, earring hoops. A letter from the bank, inviting me to a seminar on Small Business Management. I smooth it out flat and put it in my in-tray, thinking I should go. The last letter is from Emilia's Sister, the shop on smart Cheshire Street. They've sent through an order. An old-fashioned, paper order! It's like a novelty item, beautifully printed, and I stare at it in disbelief. They want twenty necklaces, thirty charm bracelets, some of the dangling rose earrings I'm having made . . .

There's a knock on the door. 'Come in!' I shout happily, and then look up. It's Ben.

'Hey,' I say, putting down the order and picking up the broom which I use to sweep the floor. I brush it nervously. I don't know why I'm surprised it's Ben knocking at the door: it's always Ben. Alwaysused to be. 'What's up?'

He shuts the door. 'Hi, Cinders. I just wanted to say sorry for being a cock.'

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I laugh nervously. 'What are you talking about?'

Ben rubs one eye; he looks tired. 'The last however many days, basically. I have been a cock. Shouting at you . . . Kissing you . . . Not calling you . . . Just now . . . Real cock behaviour. I know you're having a bad time at the moment. I shouldn't have taken advantage.'

For a brief microsecond I let myself think of his lips on mine again, the feeling of his skin, his tongue in my mouth . . . I shake my head, smiling.

'You're many things, Ben Cohen, but you're not a cock,' I say. 'I should have called. Cleared the

air.'

'No,' he says, smiling back at me. 'I should have done.'

'I behaved really badly. I'm the one who . . . who ran off. And I was drunk and hysterical. I'm

sorry.'

Ben laughs. 'You weren't drinking alone, you know.'

'It makes me feel better if you were as drunk as me,' I say. He pauses. 'Let's say I was, and call it

quits.'

'Um - yes,' I say. 'Definitely.'