Page 45 of Annabel and Her Sisters

Ginnie and I looked at each other. Interview over.

How many times had our mother ended a conversation thus?

With that famous stare? And suddenly, it occurred to me, it would invariably be at a similar moment.

My mother was very straightforward and also very confiding.

When we were young we could talk to her about anything– friendship problems, boys, periods, the pill vs the coil– you name it, we hashed it, but just when Ginnie and I thought we were getting to some juicy gossip when we were teenagers– ‘Mummy, who did you go out with before Daddy?’ That stare.

Then: ‘Come on, doggies, off we go to Primrose Hill!’

Now we knew why. The thought of Primrose Hill brought me back down to earth.

Joan. The house. I shook my head to regroup and asked Ginnie if she’d broached it?

Yes, she told me, mechanically, Mum was happy.

She realized she needed her own space and was looking forward to it.

The garden particularly, she told me in a monotone.

Keen, almost. To live with her sister. Good, I said, in an equally unenthusiastic fashion, far less buoyant than I’d imagined I would be.

I should be so flipping relieved and delighted.

We should be so relieved, the pair of us.

But something had trumped our plan. Which so often happens in life, doesn’t it?

Just when you think you’ve got that stubborn little plate that had refused to even swivel, spinning nicely, a totally new one falls crashing to the ground.

My mother had unnerved me. No– she’d made me feel ashamed.

For asking. For being inquisitive. I heaved a great sigh from my trainers and looked bleakly at Ginnie.

She was staring blankly into space at the wall.

Eventually she looked up. We exchanged a wan smile.

‘Let’s sleep on it for a bit,’ I said. ‘I mean about talking to Clarissa. No hurry. I mean, it’s been fifty-odd years after all– what’s a few more days? But Ginnie, don’t rush it, like–’

‘Like I did just now. I know, I’m sorry. And I agree, let’s pause. And I’ll get Mum to Joan’s when she’s ready. I’ll let you know. I have a feeling it might be any day now, actually. Have you seen it? The house?’

‘Yes, it’s amazing. You won’t recognize the place, Ginnie. Polly’s done a terrific job.’

‘Good for her. Sounds like our daughters are a chip off the old block, eh? And I don’t mean ours,’ she eyed me ruefully.

I smiled. She meant Mum’s block. ‘Yes. The pair of them most certainly are.’ I got up, as she did too, and we hugged tightly.

‘Speak soon,’ I told her.

Back in London, I realized the house was empty, which was something of a first and something of a godsend.

No plumbers, Polly was probably at the foundry getting Nefertiti fired, and Marie, my cleaner, had worked her magic– the house was immaculate.

I wandered upstairs and then up again, to the top, which was still a novelty.

Yes, the loft extension was finished: light and bright and airy; it was a fabulous space, I realized, and Marie had cleaned the windows.

Just the carpet layers to come now– always the heroes at the end of any building work.

It occurred to me I felt relieved that André wasn’t here, relieved that little interlude in my life was over, and actually, slightly foolish.

Don’t ask me why. Well yes, OK, if you must know I felt like a ridiculous middle-aged woman hitting on a younger man.

Correction, fitter man. I went across to the little French windows which opened easily, unlike most windows in my house, which years of painting had obstructed, and leaned out over the tiny balcony rail, breathing in the balmy air and gazing over the rooftops of London.

Gosh, I could see for miles from here. I gazed at all the people, scurrying below like little ants.

Quite close to home, just a couple of streets away, in fact, I recognized a couple of those ants, heading into Waitrose.

It was Colin and Mike, Ralph’s friends. I smiled, then frowned.

So they were back. And it didn’t finish until Saturday, the festival.

I drew my head back in thoughtfully and shut the door.

Perhaps they’d got bored? Decided to come home? Except, apparently they loved it.

I thought for a moment. Then I nipped downstairs– three flights now– seized my basket from behind the door, then my purse and keys, and hastened down the hall to the front door. After all, we were short of milk and bread, and there was no fruit either. And Polly lived on fruit.

Ten minutes later, I was bumping into the pair of them in the frozen food section, just as they were opening a door and reaching up for a large pack of Magnums.

‘Caught in the act,’ I declared. ‘And not even the minis– full sized! I’m impressed.’ It was lame, but when they turned, surprised, they laughed nonetheless.

‘If we get the minis, we only end up eating two,’ Colin confessed. ‘And the fridge is empty, full of rotten veg. We’ve just got back.’

‘Oh yes, of course, the festival!’ I dissembled. ‘How was it?’

‘Great fun, actually,’ he grinned. ‘It’s always a blast, but this year was particularly good.’

Mike rolled his eyes. ‘A blast, is stretching it, Annabel. It was slightly better than usual and I found a half-decent pub with some eccentric local heathens which I repaired to occasionally for some R and R. Obviously I confessed to it all on the way back in.’

I laughed. ‘I thought it was finishing on Saturday?’

They looked surprised. ‘Oh no, yesterday,’ said Mike.

Colin shot him a glance. ‘But Ralph… had clerical business elsewhere. He went to see a colleague, in York, I think.’

‘Ah, right.’ We made a bit more polite chit-chat and then we went our separate ways. But I’m intuitive, and I could tell Colin was spinning me a line.

When I got home, Polly was back from the foundry.

We hugged and I told her Granny was so much better and that she’d done a fab job at Joan’s and she should be very proud.

Then I told her about Lara– she already knew, the cousins were close– and then she filled me in with her news: Tilly and Patrick were engaged, Sasha had a new job as a chef in an amazing restaurant, which was great.

And then she made to go upstairs with an overfull, already dripping cup of coffee.

When I raised my eyebrows, she stopped to pour a bit into the sink.

As she wiped the bottom with a bit of kitchen roll, I licked my lips. They were a bit dry.

‘Polly, why don’t you like Ralph?’

She turned, surprised. She opened her mouth, possibly to deny, then she shut it again. She sat down: raised her chin.

‘There’s talk.’

‘Talk of what?’

‘Talk of the Anthea Parker variety. I told you, but you didn’t want to know.’

‘Be more specific.’

She sighed. ‘Hannah knows him pretty well.’

‘Hannah?’

‘Luke’s Hannah. She was in the choir, remember?’

‘Oh, Luke’s Hannah.’ Who I’d yet to meet. But whom I liked the sound of; apparently, she played the cello and she was in a very cool orchestra, LMTO, which played musical theatre. If it wasn’t for everything else, I’d be keen to know more.

‘Just because he’s got a dog collar, Mum, doesn’t mean he’s an angel.’

I blinked, taken aback at her tone. ‘No. Quite.’ I nodded firmly but my lips were trembling like a couple of fools.

‘And I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that either, but he’s had a few girlfriends since he split with his wife.’

‘I know. Cynthia, who’s quite a bit older than me, and Celine, at the hospice shop.’

‘And Margot, one of the altos in the choir, who he had lunch with the other day. Hannah saw them in Frantoio’s.’

I opened my mouth, surprised, then shut it again. ‘Maybe just a friend?’ I said hopefully, but my mind was spiralling. Margot. Fonteyn, sprang to mind: light on her feet, lithe, doing arabesques in a frilly tutu.

‘Yes, maybe.’ Polly shrugged. ‘I just… don’t want you to get hurt.’

I nodded and gave a brave smile, but I could feel my hands clenching in my lap. They were sweaty too. I wondered if he really was on clerical business in York. Colin had looked… yes, shifty. Only word for it.

‘Luke says I should mind my own business and not tell you, but I disagree. So does Hannah. I might not have mentioned it seeing as you headed me off at the pass last time, but since you asked, I’m telling you.’

‘Thank you, darling.’ I meant it. I looked at her. She gave me a sad little smile. Then she put her coffee down and got up to give me a hug.

‘It doesn’t mean he’s a shit or anything, but… you know.’

‘A playboy?’

‘It’s player . We keep telling you.’

‘ Can a vicar be a player?’ We looked at each other searchingly, genuinely bemused. ‘I mean, surely it would get about? Gossip? Not great, in his profession, don’t you think?’

She shrugged. ‘Like I say, I don’t know. But I knew I’d find it impossible not to tell you. Max says I’m emotionally incontinent.’

‘Oh, me too,’ I said with feeling. And it occurred to me I would have to tell her about Clarissa, at some point. How could I not? And then Luke, because it wouldn’t be fair otherwise and– oh God. The ramifications. All the cousins…

Polly gave my shoulder a last squeeze, then picked up her mug and went upstairs, leaving me staring blankly at the kitchen wall. As I’d done so often in the past, aping Shirley Valentine– if you’re the same vintage as me– I murmured:

‘Hello, wall.’