I Should Be So Lucky (11 page)

‘You didn’t need to come in today, did you?’ Amanda asked. ‘Effectively, you’ve finished for the term, you lucky thing. I’ve still got three more sessions with the Economics group.’

‘Sandra’s asked me to supervise the first half of this morning with her, and also I thought I’d stop by to give them a bit of encouragement on all their exam days,’ Viola said. ‘I know they mostly seem cocky and don’tcareish but one or two look like they could do with a hug, virtual though; it’d have to be. I won’t be here when they come out though; Sandra’s taking over and I’m off to have lunch with my brother.’

‘And that’s … good? Bad?’

‘Bit of both, I think. I know he doesn’t mean to, but he somehow always makes me feel like a naughty child. I’ll let you know tomorrow. Are we still going out to see this band?’

‘We are. I’ll pick you up at about eight, OK?’

‘Fine. I’m looking forward to it but, Manda, I’m absolutely trusting you
not
to be setting me up with anyone. You’re not, are you?’

‘No. I promise I’m not.’ Viola looked quickly at Amanda’s hands – her fingers weren’t crossed but then she added, ‘Well, not this time anyway.’

NINE

LUNCH WITH MILES
was going to involve a glass or two of wine, so Viola left the Polo at home and caught a bus. She sat behind two middle-aged women who were talking loudly and frankly about their love lives, giggling so much that their substantial flesh was shaking in a fascinatingly jellyish way. ‘So I’m lying there,’ the one by the window was saying, ‘feeling like a fat, frilly whale in my basque and suspenders, and he’s there, bollock naked, by the bed with a massive hard-on and
carefully folding his socks
!’

‘Could be worse, he could have kept them on!’

‘Oh don’t!’ the other one howled.

‘So it’s over?’ her friend managed to ask through her spluttered laughter.

‘Over? What d’you think? If all he can think of at a moment like that is aligning his footwear, can you imagine what he’d be like to live with?’

The two women got off the bus, still happily shrieking with laughter, and Viola continued, more or less alone. She found herself thinking about Gregory Fabian, who, she recalled from Monday, hadn’t been wearing socks at all with his tatty, dusty Docksiders. And when he did, she reckoned he was absolutely certain
not
to be a folder-upper when it came to moments of passion. Not that she was actually speculating. Not that she even wanted to. Especially as there seemed to be a Mrs Fabian. Would she ever see him again? Probably not, though she still had unanswered questions she’d meant to ask about the late-night gardening.

Mrs F. had effectively broken up the lunch. He’d been seethingly furious with Mickey for her stroppy interruption, but then what had it looked like to her? Her husband blatantly entertaining a strange woman on their shared work premises, in a gorgeously arranged tented bower with wine and food, surrounded by flowers? Ah but – why wouldn’t it be surrounded by flowers? It was, after all, the family business. No, of course Mickey had every right to be thoroughly pissed off with him – the hell she’d have given Greg the minute Viola was off the premises wasn’t hard to imagine. And no way did she ever want to be taken for some predatory Other Woman. If that was what Mickey had concluded, she couldn’t be more wrong. But realistically, Viola probably wouldn’t see him any more anyway. She’d sent a text to thank him for what had
turned
out to be an inch from the glass of wine and two pieces of pitta dunked in hummus, before she’d taken the hint from the glowering Mickey and fled. He’d apologized all the way to her car, but hadn’t exactly pleaded with her not to go. Probably very sensible of him.

Miles was there first. Viola could see him through the restaurant window, over by the far wall, already at the table, flicking a napkin about at a tiny flying bug. It was a dark little place, all oak panelling and hushed voices and serious-looking portly men in dark suits. Women preferred somewhere brighter, more contemporary. Here there were way too many gloomy paintings of dead, unplucked, unskinned game. Surprising choices for decoration, she thought as she walked through to meet him: they’d surely put people off their food. You wouldn’t much fancy the pheasant casserole if, while you were eating, you had to look at a picture of one of its relatives, all feathered and bloody with its dead eye accusing you.

‘I was beginning to give up on you,’ Miles said by way of greeting, looking at his watch in an ostentatiously grumpy way.

‘I’m not
that
late: only about three minutes. I had to call in at the college first, check the students in for their first A-level exam, make sure they’d actually turned up and then stay to supervise for a while,’ she told him. ‘Have you ordered any wine? I’m gasping for a drink.’

‘Car?’

‘No car today. I came by bus.’

Miles frowned. ‘You’re not
drinking too much
, are you, Vee? It doesn’t make anything better, you know.’

Viola unfolded her napkin and gripped the edge of it tightly, stopping herself from snapping at him. Were all big brothers so bossy like this? Or was it the twelve-year age gap that made him treat her like a small child who was needing to be kept in order? He’d been lovely to her when they were younger, teaching her to ride her bike, how to fish, to play chess, patiently letting her join in garden cricket games with him and his friends. He’d happily babysat for her and let her stay up watching unsuitable films way past her bedtime when Naomi had gone out. Kate had been sure she’d end up with an older man, entirely because of hanging out with her brother and his pals, but it hadn’t happened.

‘Don’t be silly, Miles. I don’t think fancying a couple of glasses of wine with lunch makes me a candidate for rehab, do you? I already know the balance, thanks. When you’re feeling down it’s the last thing that’ll cheer you up, once you’re past that first half-glass.’ Now she was sounding sulky and defensive. Maybe she should go out to the pavement, come back in and start again, breezy, smiley and determined to let any negative comments go straight over her head.

‘Sorry,’ he said, looking round for the waiter. ‘I just don’t want you to get any more tough deals in your life.
After
Marco and Rhys, the last thing you want is …’

‘Hey, Marco doesn’t come under “tough deals”,’ she protested quickly. ‘We still love each other a lot.’

‘Yes but …’

‘Let’s move on, Miles, shall we? I know having a husband who went gay isn’t the ideal, but he and I handle it quite cheerfully, OK? It’s been sorted for years. Not an issue. Shall we order? And then you can tell me why you wanted to buy me lunch. And sorry I’m sounding moody. I don’t mean to. I just keep thinking you’ve got me here for a big telling-off.’ She felt her eyes beginning to fill with unexpected tears. What was that about? She shook her head, telling herself to stop being so feeble.

‘Oh, Viola darling, nothing of the kind.’ He reached across and patted her hand. He looked sweet when he smiled, she thought. Like an endearing polar bear in that floppy cream suit. He was losing his hair, she noticed. Did he mind that or did he rather welcome it? It did give him a bit of gravitas that his rather school-boyish face had always lacked. Her own face shape was more pointy, like Naomi’s, and her hair was dark brown like Kate’s and inclined to be disobediently curly like hers too, especially in damp weather, but you would never mistake round-faced Kate and sandyish Miles as
not
siblings.

Viola opted for a goat’s cheese, beetroot and pine-nut salad, unable to face the fleshy menu after seeing the
paintings
. Miles went for calf’s liver, onions and bacon, delighted to find it on the menu. ‘Serena won’t have offal in the house. She says it’s like having a postmortem in her own kitchen.’

‘Really? I never thought of her as particularly squeamish.’ Serena’s paintings were splodgy and a bit strange; nearly all of them were brooding, near-monochrome watercolours depicting stark, leafless trees against threatening skies. You wouldn’t, Viola was sure, guess they were the work of someone too queasy to slice a kidney.

‘Her pictures, they always make me think they could have been done by …’ Viola stopped, realizing that to say ‘a potential murderer’ as she so nearly had wasn’t likely to go down well with her brother when describing his wife of twenty-two years. Viola had been a bridesmaid at their wedding, thirteen and smiling gritted-teeth-style through a mortified sulk at being seen in public in peach satin frills with a huge padded bow at the back. ‘… someone who could cope easily with hunks of bloodied meat,’ she finally said.

Miles laughed as he cut into the liver. ‘I know what you nearly said!
A tortured soul
.’

That would do. Kinder than killer. ‘Er … yes. Something like that. Is she? Tortured?’

Miles shrugged. ‘Who knows. She doesn’t say a lot these days, not now the twins have left home. She’s forever out, painting or at an antiques fair, playing bridge,
doing
all her real living off the premises. Sometimes I think she only comes home to sleep and change her clothes. I expect it’s what all marriages come to in the end. You’ve had a luc—’ It was his turn to cut the sentence short.

‘Lucky escape,’ she supplied for him. ‘I don’t think Rhys would see it that way, do you?’ Viola put down her fork, unable to eat any more.

‘No, but hey, I’m sorry, really sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it was coming out, honestly. But you and Rhys weren’t going to make it to the bored years anyway, were you? Oh God, sorry, sorry. That’s even worse!’ He was flustered now. Viola noticed that gravy had splashed on to his white shirt. Good. It was all she could do not to follow it up by hurling the rest of his lunch down his front.

‘No, you’re right,’ she managed to say, calmly. ‘If you’re telling me the upside of him leaving me after only fourteen months for some unknown woman and then dying was that we wouldn’t end up bored rigid in front of the TV for forty more years with nothing left to say, then fine. I’m sure you’re spot-on.’

She reached across for the bottle of wine and poured herself a generous glass, not caring whether Miles thought this was a sign of impending dipsomania or not. She’d have walked out right now, but she quite fancied pudding. And besides, now he’d dug himself into such a huge hole, when the moment came for him
to
raise the subject of her return to Bell Cottage, he’d owe her at least a mile of leeway. She picked at the last of the beetroot on her plate and listened to the low thrum of male voices behind her, talking, it seemed, about mortgages. Her own was mercifully manageable; she and Marco had bought Bell Cottage when prices were in a dip, and the house had reeked so much of incontinent cats and needed such a lot of cosmetic work that all other potential buyers reeled away in horror, at both the stench and the thought of taking it on.

‘Did you know Kate’s working on the family tree?’ Miles said eventually. ‘She wants to go back at least three centuries. She says it keeps her from going mad.’

‘Why would she be going mad?’

Miles made a face and went a bit pink. ‘Um … er,’ he pulled at his tie knot nervously, ‘nothing particular. Women’s stuff, I expect. Age? Don’t you all go funny around her time of life? Serena’s showing signs.’

She felt rather sorry for him. Serena and her angular paintings, her bridge cruises, and possibly the menopause. On their last anniversary, Miles had given her a tiny framed piece of something or other, like parchment, a little certificate that said ‘Serena and Miles, in love since 1988’, and she’d immediately shoved it in a cupboard. Viola couldn’t blame her for that – there were sweet gestures and there were ones that were nausea-inducing – but at least he’d tried. If she was
heading
into menopause madness, poor old Miles was going to be able to do nothing right.

‘Now, about Mum,’ he suddenly said, turning businesslike just as the waiter handed out the pudding menus.

‘She’s fine, thanks. On great form,’ Viola replied, contemplating profiteroles or lemon tart. ‘We’ve talked all through our moving out of the flat and she totally thinks it’s the right thing for us to do and the right time, no worries.’

‘But you don’t
want
to go back to your house, surely? Wouldn’t you rather stay where there’s someone to look after you now and then? I mean, you are a bit prone to whatever trouble’s going.’

Viola was puzzled; surely the objection from Kate and Miles had been about
Naomi
needing care, not her? ‘I’m all grown up, Miles, I can cope – I thought you were worried about Mum?’

‘Well, yes, yes. That’s the big issue, isn’t it?’

‘Not for her. She’s told me to go and get on with life. But – you’re right about the house being a bit much for her. She hardly uses half of it. She could sell it for an absolute mint and be really comfy and safe somewhere else.’

‘No, really, she can’t sell the house – think of the upheaval. She just needs more people in it. You see …’ He leaned forward, looking earnest. For an awful moment Viola thought he was going to take her hand.
‘Kate
and I had this idea after Mum was so adamant that she wouldn’t sell. We thought if you sold your place, and stayed where you are, you could invest in doing it up a bit. Then after the work was done, Mum could move into the flat where it’s nice and safe and all on one level, and you and Rachel could have the rest of the house.’

Viola considered this for a moment. It didn’t actually seem
too
unreasonable, in theory.

‘And then when she, er … passes on …’ Miles half whispered. ‘Then obviously you’d sell up and it would be divided between the three of us, as per her will.’

‘Have you seen her will?’ Viola asked. ‘Because she said to tell you she was leaving everything to Battersea Dogs.’

‘Ha! Just her joke – typical!’ He chuckled.

‘Or maybe not,’ she teased him, enjoying the hint of doubt crossing his face.

‘So – let me get this right,’ she said slowly, doing calculations in her head. ‘You and Kate have got it worked out that I could live in the house for, ooh, maybe another twenty-plus years, given Mum’s current perky good health? I keep the place going, right? Renovate it with the proceeds from Bell Cottage? Pay the bills, do the maintenance, invest everything I’ve got in it, have no option to move anywhere else,
ever
, even after Rachel’s grown up and moved on and even if I met
someone
or just fancied maybe, oh I don’t know, living in Spain for a bit.’