Going Home (23 page)

Mum ploughed on: ‘It was easy to be seduced by it all. I was. The house, the family, they were all such
good fun
– and Mike especially. He was at the helm with Tony. The pair of them were golden boys, couldn’t do anything wrong. But Tony – well, he was just special. I wasn’t aware of it then, but he was.’ Mum reached out and touched Tom’s hand. ‘Wasn’t he?’ she asked Kate, casually, as if she wanted confirmation of the price of a pint of milk.

Kate nodded. Mum gave her a private smile, sisters-in-law together, and I saw them as outsiders for the first time.

‘Mike was different,’ she went on. ‘With Tony it wasn’t an act – with Mike it is. He’s never been happy, always rest-less, always wants what he can’t have, the grass is always greener. And that’s – well, that’s thrilling, exhilarating, but it’s not for life. It’s not real. That’s why I married your dad – that’s why people get married, I think. It’s real life. Mike doesn’t understand that that’s what makes you happy.’

Dad was still fiddling with the papers, but he leaned against Mum and said, ‘She’s right.’

‘Of course I’m right,’ Mum said, and took some papers from him.

I still didn’t see where this was leading.

‘I don’t understand what this has to do with the house, though,’ Tom said, echoing my thoughts.

Kate got up, grabbed the tea-tray and clattered out of the room.

‘Darling,’ Dad said, clutching a box file on his knees, ‘Mike looked at the covenant – well, he got Rosalie to do it – and he realized that the house is worth quite a lot of money now.’

‘So?’ I said. ‘Big deal. He’s rolling in it.’

‘No, he’s not,’ Mum said shortly. ‘He’s bankrupt. He lost his job about six months ago. And now we discover he owes about three-quarters of a million pounds.’

‘What?’ I said. ‘Mike?’

‘Mike?’ said Tom. ‘Are you
sure
?’

Dad nodded.

‘But…how come?’ I said hoarsely. ‘How – how did it happen?’

Mum went on, in a toneless voice, ‘I’m afraid that’s your uncle, darling. He’s always been one to fly by the seat of his pants. He was made redundant last year – some irregularities, nothing really bad – and he invested money he didn’t have in an online stocks-and-shares company.
He borrowed more and then more and…I’m afraid he used Keeper House as collateral for the loan.’

‘Uncle Mike? But…’ I felt as if someone was trying to explain the plot of a soap opera I didn’t watch with characters I’d never heard of. ‘Are you sure you’ve got this right? It really doesn’t sound like him. He must have been defrauded, or set up, or something.’

Some irregularities? What did that mean? We all knew Uncle Mike was a crazy spendthrift, but that was just his style. It was part of what made him such fun when we were younger – you never knew if he was in clover and buying a shiny red MG or selling his furniture to afford bread and milk. Then I remembered David’s harsh, angry words of only a week ago: ‘You’re all like that, all of you. Look at Mike, living in a fantasy-land, not caring how much he hurts other people.’

‘Darling, you shouldn’t blame him too much,’ Mum said. ‘He’s had some bad luck. Unfortunately, he and Rosalie have proved to us that control of the house is still his, and I’m afraid that means we have to sell, whether we like it or not.’

I found my voice at last. ‘But he can’t! He can’t force you to sell!’

‘I’m afraid he can, Lizzy,’ said Dad. ‘And he has. He couldn’t have done it without Rosalie, though, I’m sure. He must have known he could do something like this. I just don’t think he ever thought he’d be able to pull it off, though, until he met her. She crystallized it for him. I don’t think she wanted to, but she did. Well, you know the old saying – “Fancy a house, marry a property lawyer.” I blame myself.’

‘Don’t be silly, John,’ Mum said sharply. ‘I blame Mike. Well, I blame Rosalie, too, but Mike first and foremost. She rang us last week from David’s. She was distraught. She was head over heels in love with Mike and I don’t think she
thought about what she was getting into. Well, she’s left him now, which I suppose is for the best. He was using her.’

‘But I thought he loved her?’ Tom said, in a small voice.

‘I’m sure he persuaded himself he
could
love her,’ Mum said. ‘The sad thing is she’s probably the best thing that’ll ever happen to him, but he’s too immature. Too selfish. He won’t realize till long after she’s gone, and in the meantime he’s broken her heart and there’s this –’ she waved her arms, ‘to deal with. That’s Mike. I knew he’d let us down one day but not how badly.’

‘Let’s not talk about it any more, shall we?’ said a voice at the door. It was Kate, her hands in her pockets, leaning against the frame, her bright gold hair shining in the pale sun. ‘It’s my fault he went and it’s my fault he still feels so hurt, all these years later…And that’s why he doesn’t care any more. He can sit there and be jolly and underneath be lying to us. That’s the truth. So.’ She collected herself, then went on: ‘The apportionment of blame after the main event is satisfying but pointless. Let’s just not talk about it.’

I wanted to ask what she meant. I wanted to say, ‘But, Kate, you and Mike, what happened?’ But, of course, I didn’t. She left the room, and Tom reached for the tea, and I knew I wouldn’t ask.

We drank our tea in near-silence. I looked across at the photo of Dad, Mike, Tony and Chin outside the house. It was in this room, three months ago, that Dad had told us all that the house had to be sold. We were packing up, moving out, and our family was becoming more fractured and distant as a result. Because of Mike, who had sat there with his head bowed and forehead lined after Dad had broken the news. Because of Mike, who’d married Rosalie who, it turned out, hadn’t wanted to be queen of her own British castle, simply to help the man she loved get the
proceeds from it. The proceeds from the sale of a goldenstone house that people had lived, loved and died in for four hundred years were going to pay off electronic, paper-less debts, run up in a matter of days. Because of my uncle Mike, the eldest son, whom I loved and who had casually reached in and ripped out the heart of our family.

It turned out that much of what Mike had said and done at Christmas had been a lie: that the sole purpose of his visit was the hour-long conversation he had had with my father on Christmas Eve while we all lay around like a family of lotus-eaters watching
Some Like It Hot
and yelling about how great it was to have him home, as Rosalie sat with us. How she must have laughed at us. What idiots she must have thought we were as, in the study, Mike was explaining, calmly, brutally, to Dad that he had to sell our home. My darling dad had kept this conversation to himself all through Christmas, waiting till the twenty-eighth when he could go and see our family solicitor. There, he reread the deed of covenant that he and Mike had signed when Mike moved to New York, the document that confirmed the house was in my father’s trust but belonged to Mike, although all three siblings benefited from a sale, according to the terms of Grandfather’s will, it was ultimately Mike’s house to do with as he pleased. And it pleased him to sell it.

I pieced this and more together from Mum and Dad during the next few hours and over supper. Later, when Tom, Miles and I met at the Neptune we agreed how
Alice in Wonderland
it all felt, like when you are little and allowed to stay up way past your bedtime, and everything seems strange and dreamlike. The Mike I knew wasn’t a nasty man, a criminal or a bastard: he was our
uncle
, we loved him, he looked out for us and made life better. So what he’d done didn’t make sense. It was a bit like finding out your teacher’s first name, or seeing a friend’s parents kissing – wrong, strange, odd.

It wasn’t just the sale of the house. It was what Mike’s behaviour had meant over the years. Did he really not care about any of us? Could he put us all aside so easily, so thoughtlessly? It was chilling to think about his real nature, if one disregarded the patina of charm. And then I remembered the missed birthdays, the late arrivals, the broken promises, nearly thirty years of half-forgotten disappointments. Our parents refused to condemn him outright – to us, anyway: Mum and Dad were too bogged down with the practicalities of the sale, preparations for the wedding and the move, as was Kate, and Kate was bound by some other code of secrecy. I was sure now that Mike had been in love with her, but it wasn’t as simple as that. I had to understand that there are always parts of people’s lives of which you know nothing, things that happened before you were born or that have nothing to do with you.

So that night at the Neptune, we drew our own conclusions. Mike was a dastardly, creeping, thin-moustachioed skunk, the black sheep of the family, a liar, a cheat, and we – Tom and I especially – cursed his name. We couldn’t have known what would happen in the weeks to come. We didn’t even know where he was – Rosalie had moved back into the apartment and all she would tell Tom, sharply, when he rang was that Mike was in a motel, she didn’t know where, and was looking for an apartment. He didn’t reply to our emails. He didn’t even call to apologise, hadn’t spoken to Mum and Dad since he’d left at Christmas, except to confirm
the sale price of the house. The saddest thing of all was, if Mike had had to become the villain of the family it should have been for something colourful and terrible – as a high-wayman or a pirate, not as the pathetic shell of the golden boy he had once been.

Yes, we passed a strange evening in the pub. Tom and I got steadily drunk as the evening wore on, and alternately ranted or were silent. Miles was good enough to sit with us while we occasionally burst out with things like, ‘Why can’t he just sell something in America?’, ‘What will we say to him at the wedding?’ or ‘Why did he do it?’

‘I tell you something,’ Tom burst out, after a prolonged silence. ‘I’m sticking with the good ones from now on. Gibbo – now, there’s a good bloke. No trouble, nice, polite, not a cheating, lying thief, like Rosalie, or – or Mike, or even David. Sorry, Lizzy.’

‘That’s OK,’ I said.

‘Sorry, Miles, too,’ Tom said.

‘No sweat,’ Miles said. He paused. ‘So – David must have known, mustn’t he?’

‘About what?’ Tom said.

‘About Mike. Must have. And he did nothing about it.’

‘Fucking typical,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’d love another wine white, please, Tom.’

‘White wine, you mean,’ Miles said. ‘Are you OK there?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m fine. How about you?’

‘I’m great, thanks,’ Miles said, disentangling his hand from my frenzied grip. ‘It might be time for you to try a spritzer. How does that sound?’

‘Lovely,’ I said, as Miles got up.

‘Stag night,’ Tom said firmly, as he came back with the drinks. ‘I’m going to give Gibbo a night to remember. Hurrah. No nonsense, bloody lying people getting in the way. Great! Gibbo’s the best, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah!’ I said.

Tom leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Let’s ring him. Let’s tell him we think he’s really great.’

‘OK,’ said Miles. ‘We should go home now. Come on, finish your drinks. Honestly, the pair of you.’

‘Shut up,
Dad
,’ I said, as we tripped out of the pub into the cool April evening a few minutes later. ‘’Bye, Bill! ‘Bye! ‘Bye, Bill!’ I felt Miles’s arm through mine, comforting and solid.

‘Come on, Liz,’ he said softly. ‘Let’s get you both home, OK? Get some sleep. It’ll all look brighter in the morning.’

Things didn’t look brighter in the morning. I slept badly, and woke up with a terrible hangover. It was overcast and misty, a damp, cold day. I helped Mum and Chin with the seating plan and the order of service, then felt so terrible I crawled back to my room and flicked through my old back issues of
Vogue
for an hour. Dad was busy in his study, and Mum and Chin were in wedding-catering heaven. I felt like a spare part, so when Tom phoned from Kate’s and said he wanted to get back to London that afternoon and did I want to come with him, I said yes with some relief. I wanted to go back to my flat, and think about California and my new life. Which I still hadn’t told anyone about.

At one thirty, Tom’s car beeped outside. Mum, Dad and Chin came out with me to say goodbye.

‘Hello, Miles!’ Mum exclaimed, as she saw him getting out of the car.

‘Hello, Mrs Walter,’ Miles said. He took my bag.

‘Gosh, you do look well,’ Mum said. ‘John is so grateful to you, you know. That bit of leather you fixed on the bellows – well, it’s transformed them.’

‘Really?’ said Miles. ‘I’m so glad.’

‘Yup,’ Dad said, in his usual loquacious way. ‘Thanks, Miles.’

Chin kissed me.

‘See you on Friday,’ I said.

‘What’s Friday?’ she replied.

I groaned. ‘Chin, don’t say you’ve forgotten! Your bloody hen night, that’s what. OK?’

‘God, of course,’ Chin said, slapping her hand over her mouth. ‘I’ve been so busy. Yes, can’t wait.’ After a pause she said, ‘It’s not actually a hen night, is it?’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘I mean it’s you, me and Jess. It’s not forty pissed under-dressed girls parading round in those limos, is it?’

‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘It’s
Les Misérables.
You love
Les Misé;rables
! And we’re having cocktails at Claridges. I told you that ages ago.’ She smiled apologetically, as if she’d been thinking of something different and much better. ‘Well, there you go!’ she said brightly. ‘That’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?’

‘Sure is,’ I said.

She leaned forward. ‘Don’t worry about Mike,’ she whispered. ‘I know we all hate him at the moment, but it could be worse. We’ll talk about it on Friday, OK?’

I was touched – Chin’s softer side is as rarely spotted as the N6 night bus.

She stepped aside as Miles put my bag, plus some scones Mum had made for me, into the boot.

‘’Bye,’ Mum called. ‘See you soon, darlings.’

‘’Bye,’ we called back.

‘Well,’ said Tom, as we drove off. ‘It sure is mighty fine to go home once in a while. Visit the folks, find out how the old clan’s doin’, what people have been up to.’

I leaned back and ran my hands across my eyes. I was tired.

‘Step on it, Tom,’ Miles said, from next to me. ‘I’ve got a dinner reservation this evening.’

‘Ooh,’ Tom said, with mock-interest. ‘Who with?’

‘Mind your own business,’ Miles said. ‘And I’ll mind mine.’

‘Oh, God, not this again,’ I said. ‘I’m going to sleep.’

‘Put your head on my lap,’ Miles offered. He produced a jumper from his bag and folded it. ‘Go on, you’ll be comfortable that way.’

So I did, and as I was falling asleep, Miles stroked my hair, and started arguing with Tom about Jonny Wilkinson, a conversation that lasted all the way back to London.

After that weekend, I felt I had to start telling people that I was taking the new job, and more than ever I felt ready for it. I just wished that there was someone close I could talk it all over with, but good advice-givers were thin on the ground. I tried ringing Georgy but she was still in Italy. Tom was busy and stressed with work (a.k.a. putting the final touches to the gayest stag night ever), and Jess, whom Mum had told about Mike when she went home the day after we left, would get upset if she was the only person entrusted with this knowledge. In the old days I would have rung Mike – he would have been the perfect person to chat to: he would have understood what I was about to do in leaving everything behind and going to America. I thought Chin might understand, even if she had turned into a mad person who shouted bewildering things like ‘SUGARED ALMONDS!’ and ‘VOILE IS SHABBY!’ at me and her other nearest and dearest. But she wasn’t around much either. She was always busy with the wedding. I understood that, but she seemed different in another way too, somehow – suddenly unavailable, even when she was there. Before all this she’d been someone you’d naturally tell things to. She was nosy, and cutting, but never judgemental.

On Friday, I tripped into work, thrilled that it was Friday and that I had a really good evening to look forward to all day. Half-way through the morning it came to me that tonight was the stag night too, and although I’d left messages, I hadn’t yet spoken to Tom in a last-ditch attempt to persuade him to inject a note of masculinity into the proceedings. Or, if not that, at least a note of something that Gibbo might want to do. So I phoned him at work. I might as well not have bothered. The conversation went something like this:

Me: But can’t you see that while you might love the idea of drinks at the American Bar and then
Chicago
, it’s not necessarily Gibbo’s idea of a great stag night?

Tom: So what are you saying? I’ve planned a crap night out? Thanks a fucking bundle, Lizzy. I’ve really thought about this, I spent ages investigating what Gibbo might like to do.

Me: And what you came up with was that he’d like to see Michael Greco in
Chicago
? And it must be sheer coincidence that you have fifteen pictures of Michael Greco in your flat and four different recordings of
Chicago
, on vinyl
and
CD.

Tom: Yes, that coincidence took both of us by surprise.

Me: What a load of rubbish.

Tom: Shut up.

Me: How many people have you persuaded to come?

Tom: Well, Miles is coming, which is good, because a few people have cancelled this week and I’ve got to take the tickets back to the box office tonight. And we’ve got a nice surprise for Gibbo too.

Me: A striptease by a Brighton antiques dealer?

Tom: I’m a very busy lawyer. Go away now, please. Goodbye. (Puts phone down.)

Although he was annoying at times, I still trusted Tom’s advice so at lunchtime I dashed out to the Holy of Holies
– TopShop – to take back some lemon stilettos that he had told me were cheap and nasty, like something a group of Munchkins from the Lollipop Guild in
The Wizard of Oz
might have worn. I wasn’t sure he was right but I couldn’t look at them without laughing now, and it is wrong to be looking down at your feet and snorting during a meeting, as I had found out yesterday during a high-level chat with Lily. So I consoled myself while I was there by buying a lovely spring/summer vintage Liberty print flared skirt with cute deep pockets on either side.

On my way out of TopShop, clutching the bag – which also contained a gorgeous suede belt and a black crocheted wrapover top – I veered behind Oxford Street and walked towards Great Titchfield Street to grab a sandwich before I went back to the office. I walked up to Luigi’s, and was pleased to see the little tables and chairs that dotted the patio outside occupied by some hardy shoppers enjoying the first of the spring sunshine. I dashed in, joined the queue and called Ash at the office to see if he wanted anything. We had a shouted conversation above the braying of the two girls at the first table outside. I got off the phone, made my purchases and was turning to leave when I heard a familiar voice. The braying girls were Chin and Sophia Gunning, both in outsize black sunglasses and silk scarves, pretending to be best friends.

‘Blimey, this is a coincidence when I’m seeing you in a couple of hours, isn’t it?’ I said, as I kissed my aunt and smiled ingratiatingly at Sophia Gunning. ‘What are you doing here?’ I said to Chin.

‘Guy, in Liberty’s,’ Chin said briefly, sitting down again. ‘He’s making my shrug. I’ve got my final fitting this afternoon.’

‘He’s making you shrug?’ I asked stupidly. I felt like a huge large giraffe, standing up while tiny Chin and Sophia
sat daintily far below me, sipping their coffee. I picked up an Amaretti biscuit from the uneaten pile on the table and put it in my bag.

Sophia’s eyes flicked up to me with a look of total disdain, which she immediately masked with laughter. ‘Ha-ha-ha! Oh, Lizzy, you’re so funny.’

‘No, Lizzy,’ Chin said patiently. ‘He’s making me
a shrug.
To wear over my dress. Cream cashmere, lace trim. It’s going to be gorgeous.’

‘I’m sure it will,’ Sophia said, fluttering her eyelashes at Chin, who fluttered hers back. ‘We’re bunking off this afternoon, aren’t we, darling? I’m going shopping with Chin and we’re going to be
so girly.
Then we’re going for cocktails to have a proper catch-up. Oh, Chin,’ she said passionately – I wanted to delve into my bag and whip out an Oscar for her incredibly convincing portrayal of the Girl Who Isn’t A Total Bitch – ‘it’s
so good
to see you again!’