He laughs, and turns back to the crowd, only just thinning out as the band milk the applause. ‘Look, it’ll be in there somewhere, we can find it once this lot have finished.’
We. We can go and find it.
‘Can you hop as far as the bar? If I help you?’ Kit’s blue eyes are dark when he looks at her, and Gina has the sudden thrilling sensation that he feels exactly the same way she does. As if she could climb right inside him, as if everything else in this crowded room is slightly blurry in comparison with his sharp outline.
She nods. He grabs her hand and Gina lets Kit lead her to the five-deep bar where the student serving waves at him and makes a ‘Drink?’ gesture. His hand is warm and damp and grips hers tightly, ostensibly so they don’t become separated in the crowd, but there’s no crowd where they’re standing and he only lets go to collect the beers.
They take their drinks to a quieter corner and before Gina can even worry about what they’re going to talk about, they’re talking. About the band, about her lost shoe, about the bar, about their favourite music, about the amazing coincidence that Kit’s mates with Naomi’s brother, Shaun. His amused blue eyes never leave her face, and Gina feels as if she’s been here before, as if they’ve known each other all their lives.
They have another beer, and discover they both love Nick Drake, and are left-handed, and always wanted a cat but were never allowed one. And the headliners arrive but Kit and Gina are still talking in the dark corner of the bar, the space between them slowly disappearing. She only hears The Marras in the distance, but that’s fine. It’s as if they’re playing in a corner of her bedroom.
This is the best night of my life, she thinks, light-headed with a funny serene happiness that makes her feels as if she’s floating like a helium balloon over the crowd of dancers. Nothing will ever feel better than this.
And it’s not even midnight.
To get to her mother’s home in Hartley, Gina had to drive past 7 Church Lane, the house Janet had coveted for as long as they’d lived in the area.
It was the handsomest house on a road of handsome houses – 1930s mock-Tudor detached, all clean black-and-white half-timbering, with flowerbeds edging a velvety lawn, and a cherry tree in exactly the right spot in the garden, poised like a flattering hat on a beautiful face. As if to mark it out as the best house in the row, a red postbox was set into the brick wall outside the sunburst wrought-iron gate, the GR monogram picked out in gold.
G for Gina, she used to think as a teenager, ever monitoring her surroundings for Signs. R for who? It had made her tingle with anticipation and a bit of dread, that her R was out there, but might not find her in boring Hartley.
Janet used to swivel in the passenger seat of Terry’s brown Rover P6 as they drove past, but at the same time as her eyes were clearly drinking in 7 Church Lane’s domestic perfection, she insisted she had no interest in being ‘the sort of person who is that obsessed with their lawn – it takes a lot of work, keeping it up, a real burden’. As an adolescent, from her slumped position in the back seat (in case anyone from school saw her out in Terry’s ancient car), Gina had secretly mouthed along in unison with her mother’s observations. Even now Janet’s voice was permanently connected with the geography of the drive back home – the apple tree that should be cut back, the conservatory that would be better with a sloping roof. Once or twice, Terry had caught Gina’s eye in the rear-view mirror, the twinkle in his expression offering a gentle solidarity with Janet’s self-delusion, and Gina had felt a funny mixture of guilt and relief that made her drop her gaze, even though part of her wanted to grin back. Maybe even roll her eyes.
It was unsettling to see that flash of a different man, not because there was anything remotely sinister about Terry and his sandy moustache and sensible shoes, but because it was too complicated to think of him as an actual person with a sense of humour. When he was boring-sales-rep Terry, he fitted into the tortuous equation of loyalty and resentment she’d worked out, a system of concessions and balances that allowed her to miss her real handsome, heroic dad, while also being not ungrateful to the man who’d stepped in to fill an unenviable gap. Acknowledging Terry’s realness also meant contemplating the relationship he had with her mother, and – hard as it was to imagine her mother having any truck with the sort of unhygienic activity Gina read about in Naomi’s eye-opening magazines – that made her want to die of squeamishness.
As an adult, driving down the road Terry’s P6 must have covered thousands of times in their endless family round of school, work, ‘runs out’ and shopping, Gina wished she’d smiled back. Poor Terry was just trying to build some bridges, in his diplomatic way. She felt sorry for him, then even sorrier, because her mother still wished they’d cut the apple tree back outside the vicarage, and she understood a little more of what Terry had put up with all those years.
Today 7 Church Lane’s borders were full of early daffodils, a cheerful splash of colour in the wintry sunshine.Gina paused outside the house to let another car past, and cast her critical housing planner’s eye over the freshly whitewashed exterior. Though she loved old properties, 7 Church Lane didn’t do much for her. There was so much twee period detail inside and out that you had to live by its rules, and she knew it was much darker and smaller inside than you’d think. One of those houses that’s nicer to look at from outside, than to live in. Maybe that was why Mum wanted it, she thought, then batted the mean thought away as she set off again.
The twin tubs of daffodil bulbs that Gina and Stuart had given Janet for their last ever joint Christmas present had just started to come out by the front door, pale green fingers of leaf with tightly rolled buds reaching up through compost. They were all right, but obviously they weren’t as good as the glorious golden trumpets showing off further up the road.
Gina rang the bell and stared at the shoots, a distant irritation tickling her. When those bulbs had been planted in some far-off John Lewis nursery last autumn, she’d still been married. And while she’d been juggling credit cards at 1 a.m., ordering extravagant Christmas flowers for their various families, Stuart had been covertly texting Bryony, arranging meet-ups in Birmingham. The bulbs of their divorce had been planted at the same time as the bloody daffodils. They’d even bloomed at the same time.
Stuart had never remembered birthdays or Christmases; Gina had always done it for both of their families, out of paranoia that she might miss someone’s last one. And even though her mother knew full well Gina sent the stupid planter of daffodils, she’d still cooed with delight and told Stuart he was so clever to have chosen her favourites.
Daffodils weren’t even her favourites. Janet’s favourite, Gina knew for a fact, was the carnation, the world’s dullest flower.
All these thoughts went through her mind at the speed of light, and she was still frowning at the tub when the door opened moments after she’d knocked, and Janet appeared on the doorstep, the sinews of her neck tight with concern.
Janet Bellamy was fifty-six and still attractive in a girlish way. She wore a lot of pink, and owned one pair of trousers, specifically for gardening. Gina had inherited her high, sharp cheekbones, but not her fine gold hair or her slight frame. When Janet was happy, she could easily pass for late forties; when she was anxious, which was more usual, she could look much older.
‘I was worried about you!’ she said, grabbing Gina’s arm before she’d even had time to open her mouth. ‘You said you’d be here at two! I thought there might be a problem with the car!’
‘No, it’s fine.’ Gina submitted to her mother’s anxious peck. ‘I just stopped to drop off some donations to the charity shop. You should say if you want any books, by the way. I’m getting rid of a lot now I don’t have bookcases.’
Janet intensified her grip. ‘You have got breakdown cover, haven’t you? I meant to check.’
Last time it had been ‘Do you know where your fuse box is? I worry that you could be trapped in a power cut,’ as if getting divorced had left Stuart with
sole custody of the marital brain, as well as the tools.
‘Yes,’ said Gina. ‘Of course I have breakdown cover.’
‘Well, make sure you do. You’ve got to think about these things now.’
‘Now what?’
‘Now you’re . . .’ Janet took a deep breath. ‘Now you don’t have anyone to fall back on. Come on in, I’ll put the kettle on.’
Fall back on. For God’s sake. Gina stared at her mother’s retreating back. What century was this? ‘Mum, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. You do realise Stuart couldn’t tell a gearbox from an egg box?’ She followed her mother down the hall, lined with watercolours of pale flowers. ‘That’s why he cycled everywhere. He was a terrible driver.’
Janet’s kitchen was spotless and smelt of lemons. Every time Gina walked into it as an adult, she longed to call a conservation officer and get it listed as a perfect example of a late-1980s fitted kitchen, right down to the Eternal Beau tea service and complete collection of Delia Smith cookery books. She perched on a high stool at the breakfast bar, tucking her feet away awkwardly.
‘That’s not the point, Georgina.’ Janet flicked on the kettle, and it boiled immediately. It had probably been on the boil since the dot of two o’clock. ‘Stuart thought ahead when it came to problems, didn’t he? He had everything covered when you were ill. I take my hat off to him – he was better than some of those doctors, the amount of research he did.’
Gina gritted her teeth. Janet idolised Stuart. He could have skinned rabbits for fun then nailed them to the front door, and Janet would still have said he was the best thing since sliced bread after his stellar performance as Supportive Husband ‘when it mattered’.
‘I know, Mum. He was . . . he is a nice guy.’
What Gina couldn’t explain to her mother was that while she appreciated what Stuart had done – she truly did, he’d been amazing – in the end she wanted a husband who’d be wonderful when it didn’t matter. To be thoughtful without warning, to produce red tulips just to cheer her up, to reduce her to laughter with a well-timed private joke. Stuart had never been like that. He fixed things, which always made Gina feel anxious and lacking. When there wasn’t something to be Done – the house renovation, their next holiday, her illness – they’d slumped into an uneasy silence, with nothing to say.
It was ironic, as Gina had pointed out to Rory, her solicitor, that getting divorced should at least have handed them one final joint project to tackle. Something to talk about as they divided up the house.
Janet dropped three tea bags into the pot, poured water on them carefully, then turned and gave Gina a reproachful look. ‘Decent men like Stuart . . . They’re like hen’s teeth. I should know.’
‘I know,’ said Gina. ‘But to be honest, Mum, neither of us was happy. Not for a while.’
‘Really? You two always seemed happy enough.’ She snapped the lid back on the tea caddy a bit too hard. ‘And, in any case, marriage isn’t about being happy all the time. It’s about knowing where you are with someone. And you knew where you were with Stuart.’
‘Until he started cheating on me with a younger woman from his cycle club,’ Gina pointed out.
‘Georgina!’
Gina had no idea what sort of husband her father had been in the four years Janet had been married to him, but she often wondered if some aspect of his personality, rather than the manner of his sudden death, had had anything to do with her mother’s obsession with straightforward men who filed every bank statement and did exactly what you expected them to, every time, in every circumstance. It wasn’t something she could ever imagine asking her. The few times she’d tried to start a conversation about her dad, as an adult rather than an inquisitive child, she’d been met with a wounded expression that had shut down her enquiries. Asking about her father, apparently, was an insult to the man ‘who’d brought her up’. It was, Gina thought, a weird reversal of the way she’d always assumed that liking ‘the man who’d brought her up’ would be an insult to her father.
‘Mum, I don’t want to talk about Stuart,’ she said. ‘It’s over. I need to focus on moving forward now. I’ve actually had quite a good weekend so far – all my things have been delivered to the new flat and I’ve been sorting stuff out. Naomi came round yesterday, she says hello . . .’
Gina ran out of words. Janet was arranging a packet of digestives on a plate, tiling them neatly in a circle. It made her feel like a visitor, even though she knew her mother had done exactly the same thing every night at five forty-five when Terry came in. The biscuits never came out until the tea was made; it stopped them going stale, apparently.
‘Mum?’ she prompted. ‘I know it’s sad, but getting divorced isn’t the end of the world. I’m not old. I mean, I’m about the same age as you were when you met Terry.’
There was a sigh, then a long pause. The local radio station mumbled in the background, and Gina felt a lethargic Sunday-ish atmosphere fill the room. Something about this house at weekends always made her feel fourteen again, complete with the looming sense that she should be getting on with something. In this case, the paperwork she needed to complete for Rory, and for the bank, and all the other faceless individuals who needed to know her new situation.
‘Mum?’ It came out more tetchy than she’d meant it to.
‘I heard what you said. I was trying to think of the right thing to say, so you won’t jump down my throat,’ said Janet, peevishly. ‘I’m trying to help, Georgina. You can be very hard to help, you know. I lie awake worrying about you. Do you think you might be in shock? I know I’m struggling to make sense of it. You seem to be rushing into all this.’
‘I’m just trying to be practical,’ Gina insisted. ‘It’s not that I’m not upset, and I’m sorry you’re upset too, but I’ve got to get on with things. Who knows what’s round the corner?’
‘Who knows indeed?’ said Janet, darkly.
Gina felt her positive mood slowly draining away. It was so much easier to be optimistic in her new flat, even with all the boxes looming over her, than in Janet’s house. It was so . . . airless. The caddies lined up alongside the kettle – tea, coffee, sugar – hadn’t switched positions in twenty years. The only thing that changed was the calendar from the local dairy that hung on the pantry door. Each month featured tastefully backlit cows in different locations around the area.
Her leg twitched, and she had an urge to move before she said anything she didn’t mean just to shock her mother out of that pursed expression. ‘Do you want me to take the tray through?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got a few bits and pieces of yours next door.’
Janet sniffed, and permitted her to carry the tray into the front room. Gina put it down on the coffee table, next to the remote control and the television guide, folded back at the day’s viewing, then opened her mouth to start a fresh conversation, about the bag of things she’d brought and her new flat. The big wall, and what she could put on it. Work. Anything but Stuart.
But by the set of her jaw Janet wasn’t about to let the previous topic go so quickly: moving rooms had just given her time to change tack. ‘Don’t bite my head off, but I’ve been thinking. Maybe you two should go to counselling,’ she said, perching on the edge of her seat, knees tight together in her camel skirt. ‘I just wonder if you’re not being a bit . . . hasty?’
‘Hasty?’ Gina repeated, then felt annoyed, as an answering doubt rose up in her. Was she?
Gina’s reactions to Stuart’s affair still surprised her. Pain, shame, regret, relief – it was like pulling a fruit machine handle, a different combination came up every time. Guilt was a regular middle-of-the-night visitor. Maybe she should have tried harder, been more grateful for a safe man who didn’t drink, gamble or complain about nursing her through some unbelievably violent bouts of vomiting.
‘Yes, hasty in throwing away a perfectly good marriage,’ said Janet, encouraged by her silence. ‘Stuart’s been through a lot too, dealing with your illness. Maybe you need to get thing
s out in the open.’
‘I suggested counselling ages ago. Stuart didn’t want to discuss our private life in front of a stranger, he said. And, anyway, he’s living with his new girlfriend now, Mum. I’d say that’s pretty final.’ Anger tightened inside Gina’s chest as she spoke the words. ‘He’s been seeing her for months,’ she went on masochistically. ‘They went to Dublin for her birthday when he’d told me he was on a weekend football tournament! Are you seriously saying I should ignore the fact that he’d been cheating on me for most of last year? I wasn’t ill then.’
‘Of course I’m disappointed in him.’ Janet frowned, but only as if, Gina thought, Stuart had reversed into Gina’s car, not left her for someone else. ‘But life throws these things at you. It’s not a fairy tale, marriage. You have to work through bad times. The trouble is you’ve always had unreasonably high expectations, ever since . . . Well, it’s just a shame you didn’t meet Stuart when you were at school.’ She pressed her lips together meaningfully.
There was a pause, during which Gina realised her mother was somehow managing to blame Kit for her divorce. ‘Are you talking about Kit?’ she asked, more to make her say it than anything else.
‘Well,’ said Janet, ‘things might have turned out very differently if you’d met Stuart first, that’s all.’
Gina sat back in her chair, lost for words. Well, lost for appropriate words. It would have been a lie to say she never thought about Kit – vague shapes flickered across her consciousness at least once a day, more a shadow than an active memory – but unpacking her old house seemed to have shaken him out of the past, like a bird from a tree. Twice in two days, an actual figure, not a faint tang of regret.
Janet was watching her, and Gina thought she looked delighted at having found not only someone else to blame for Stuart and Gina’s divorce, but also at being able to pin it on Kit, the cause of everything bad that had ever happened to her daughter.