The Wife Who Ran Away Page 12

  When I get home, Dad’s asleep on the sofa as usual, the hands-free phone on the cushion next to his head, like he’s still waiting for it to ring. I feel kind of sorry for him, but not quite as sorry as I did a few days ago. I mean, he doesn’t have to just give up and wait for Mum to decide what she wants to do. He could take matters into his own hands and be a bit more proactive. If I’d been him, I wouldn’t have bothered phoning Mum, I’d have got on the next plane to Rome and staged a sit-in outside Aunt Julia’s house till she agreed to come back with me.

  I sigh as I go back to the kitchen. Typical Dad. If he ever had any get-up-and-go, it had got up and gone long before I was born.

  I scowl at the state of the place. It looks like squatters have moved in: dirty plates everywhere, rubbish on the floor next to the overflowing bin, grounds from the coffee percolator clogging up the sink. The milk’s been left out and has separated, and a hard, dried-out lump of cheddar is still sitting on the counter where someone’s left it. God, I miss Mum.

  With another sigh, I feed Sawyer and then open the dishwasher and start to empty it, pausing now and then to scrape dried food off a plate with my fingernail. Clearly no one else is going to deal with the mess in here, so unless I want to go out and buy paper plates, I’m going to have to get on with it myself.

  It takes me over an hour to get the place halfway decent, and my back is killing me by the time I finish, but as I straighten up and survey the clean, uncluttered surface, I feel kind of proud of myself. It’s not perfect, but it’s, like, way better than it was.

  I’m in the utility room, knee-deep in stinky socks and skid marks, trying to figure out how to work the washing machine, when Dad stumbles into the kitchen. He looks like a wino with his stubble and crumpled clothes and hair sticking up in all directions. I watch him open the fridge, take out a beer and pop it on the edge of the counter, ignoring the spurt of foam that sprays across my clean work surface. Before I can say anything, he grabs a box of cornflakes and shoves a handful in his mouth, scattering crumbs all over my newly swept kitchen floor, and staggers back towards the sitting room.

  OK. I am so over all this.

  I storm after him into the sitting room. ‘Where is everybody?’ I demand.

  ‘Guy’s at Liesl’s. I think Eleanor’s upstairs . . .’

  ‘Gran!’ I yell up the stairs. ‘Gran!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Dad says fretfully.

  I wait till Gran comes down, making a right meal of the stairs for our benefit. I’ve had enough of her freeloading, too. She can boil an egg, for fuck’s sake. Her hands aren’t broken.

  ‘This can’t go on!’ I shout at the pair of them. ‘We’ve got, like, nothing to eat! I’m fed up with pizza and takeaways! And no one’s done the laundry for weeks! This place is a total pit, and I’m sick of being the only one to clean up! This entire family is falling apart, and you’re doing nothing to stop it, Dad! I’ve had enough! We need Mum to come back!’

  ‘Your mother doesn’t want to come back,’ Dad says.

  I stamp my foot. I love my dad, of course I do, but I’m totally getting why Mum left.

  ‘Then you,’ I cry, ‘have to go and get her!’

  Eleanor

  ‘Your mother doesn’t want to come back,’ Edward says feebly.

  ‘Then you,’ Agness shrieks, ‘have to go and get her!’

  I’ve never heard such arrant nonsense. Does nobody understand what this is about?

  I slam my cane against the floor. ‘Absolutely not!’

  ‘But Gran—’

  ‘The last thing Edward should do is chase after her,’ I snap.

  ‘Dear God. It’s been sixteen years. Could you please call me Ned,’ he mutters.

  I ignore the interruption. I don’t believe in diminutives; his mother christened him Edward for a reason. ‘Katherine is behaving like a spoilt child, and she needs to be treated like one,’ I say, shooing the cat from the sofa and sitting down. ‘We’ve got no choice but to put up with this silliness until she comes to her senses, since we can hardly drag her home by her hair. But the more fuss and bother we make, the harder it’ll be for her to swallow her pride and come home.’ I smooth the nubby heather tweed of my skirt with satisfaction. ‘We simply have to ignore her tantrums and let her stew in her own juice for a while. She’ll soon have had enough once she realizes it’s getting her nowhere. We won’t need to wait long.’

  Edward pulls unattractively on his lower lip. ‘You think so?’

  ‘I don’t like all this any more than you do,’ I say crisply. ‘She’s leading us all a merry dance, and no mistake. But if you go rushing off after her like a bull in a china shop, she may never come home at all.’

  ‘Don’t listen to her, Dad,’ Agness says rudely. ‘I’m telling you, Mum’s not going to come home on her own. She wants you to persuade her.’

  ‘Edward, are you going to let your daughter talk to me like that?’

  ‘Agness, that’s no way to speak to your grandmother,’ he says weakly.

  Agness puts her hands on her hips and glares. I hate to admit it, but there are times when she reminds me of myself. ‘Neither of you are getting it! Mum wants you to rush off after her. That’s the whole point! If you don’t, she’ll think we don’t care!’

  ‘Maybe she’s right, Eleanor,’ he says doubtfully.

  ‘She’s right about one thing,’ I sniff. ‘This is certainly about getting your attention. But unlike you, young lady, I have actually raised a child before. You never give in to these sorts of antics or you live to regret it.’

  ‘So what should I do, then?’ Edward asks.

  I regard my son-in-law with distaste. The man has completely fallen apart. He hasn’t shaved or changed his clothes in a week, and he stinks like a polecat. Of course it’s all been a worry and a shock, yes-yes, but there’s no need to let the side down like this. Agness has far more spine than her father, I’m glad to say. Follows the female line. I can’t abide weak men. My James was many things, but never weak.

  ‘I’ve told you already,’ I say tartly. ‘Ignore her. Nothing puts out a fire like lack of oxygen. Trust me. Once Katherine sees this silliness isn’t getting her anywhere, she’ll be back with her tail between her legs.’

  ‘She so won’t,’ Agness mutters.

  ‘Agness—’

  ‘Look, Dad, even if Mum comes home tomorrow, we still need to go shopping now. We’re out of everything, even loo roll. We can’t keep raiding the garage shop. We need to go shopping properly, the way Mum does.’

  Edward shoves a bundle of brown envelopes into the Welsh dresser. ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘No, it can’t! I told you, I’m sick of takeaways for dinner every night!’ Agness yells. ‘They’re full of MSG and high-fructose corn syrup. I can feel the carcinogens taking over.’

  ‘Who are the Carcinogens?’ I demand.

  ‘Dad—’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ Edward says irritably. ‘Eleanor, would you mind picking up a few bits?’

  I hesitate. I have no intention of running around after this man the way my daughter has foolishly done all these years, but I’m aware my position here is tenuous. Edward and I both know I’m well enough to go home. My ankle has healed sufficiently for me even to manage stairs with the aid of my cane. But Edward hasn’t yet asked me to leave, and I haven’t volunteered. Chaotic and sloppy though the household is without Katherine, I’d still rather be here than tripping over Lego at my younger daughter’s dreary council flat, or rattling around in my own cold, empty house on my own.

  ‘I can’t drive,’ I point out reasonably. ‘Not with my bad ankle.’

  Edward rubs the palms of his hands back and forth over his stubbled jaw. ‘Christ. OK, OK. The three of us can go. I wouldn’t have a clue what to buy on my own.’

  ‘Not until you’ve showered,’ Agness says pertly. ‘There’s no way I’m going out with you looking like that.’

  When Edward comes back downstairs, his face is raw and chapped, and
the buttons on his shirt are done up wrongly, but he is at least clean for the first time in a week.

  He drives to a brand new out-of-town supermarket I’ve never seen before, and the two of them wander the aisles with the confused air of inmates on day-release. Grocery shopping is clearly a new experience for the pair of them. I must say, even I’m rather overwhelmed by the scale of choice on offer in a shop this size. I usually stick to the little Tesco Express at the end of my road. I can’t see the need for jeans and books and DVDs to be sold alongside the bread and Marmite. All this excess just encourages spending beyond your means. Make out a shopping list and stick to it, and you’ll never break your budget. Ice-cream makers have no business in a British kitchen.

  I put a small tin of salmon in the shopping cart, and Agness immediately takes it out and replaces it with a multipack of tinned tuna. I purse my lips at her extravagance. She seems to think we’re feeding the French Foreign Legion. As soon as her back’s turned, I remove a suitcase-sized packet of Kellogg’s cornflakes and throw in a small own-brand variety pack. One family couldn’t possibly eat that much cereal before it all went stale. False economy, in my book.

  ‘We need to plan out some meals for the week,’ Agness says as Edward disappears to find some beer. ‘You know, like Mum does.’

  ‘What about starting with a nice Shepherd’s Pie for tonight?’

  She pulls a face. ‘Like, carb central. Can’t we have spinach salad or something?’

  ‘You can’t eat spinach raw! It’ll give you salmonella.’

  ‘Not if you wash it properly. You don’t have to boil everything to death these days, Gran. We’ve got rid of the plague, or hadn’t you heard?’

  ‘No need to be cheeky, young lady. What about steak and kidney pie, then? Or liver and bacon? Plenty of protein in that.’

  ‘Offal?’

  I push the trolley past the rows of absurd pasta shapes and fancy oils and vinegars and dressings as Agness dawdles beside them. Salad cream has always been good enough for me. ‘Pork chops. Can’t go wrong with a nice pork chop.’

  ‘Guy won’t eat pork.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’ I say waspishly. ‘He’s not Jewish, is he?’

  ‘Gran!’

  The trolley is overflowing by the time Edward joins us at the checkout, though I’m not sure we have the makings of a single decent meal. Far too many pointless things in it like pesto and pine nuts, whatever those may be. You can’t make a proper dinner out of nuts. What’s wrong with a jar of pickled herrings or some corned beef, I’d like to know? All this exotic nonsense. It’s no wonder the bill is over three hundred pounds. Clearly Katherine has been spoiling this family half to death.

  Edward pulls a plastic card out of his wallet and swipes it through the machine. It beeps, and he tries another couple of times before putting it back and taking out a second card, which is also declined.

  ‘Dad,’ Agness hisses. ‘This is embarrassing.’

  Edward turns helplessly to me. ‘Kate usually transfers money to our joint account when she gets paid.’

  ‘So use yours,’ I retort.

  ‘There’s nothing in mine,’ Edward mutters, flushing.

  ‘Nothing in yours or the joint account?’

  ‘Kate usually handles all the money,’ he says defensively.

  ‘What about your credit cards?’

  He looks sheepish. ‘Up to the limit.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ the checkout girl says nastily. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘I’ll pay this time,’ I say, rummaging around in my handbag. ‘But you need to sort this out when we get home, Edward. If you don’t have access to Katherine’s account, you’ll have to organize your own finances for a while. You must be able to keep things going until she comes back. It’s not as if it’ll be for long. I’ve told you. She’ll be home in a week.’

  If I say it often enough, perhaps I’ll even believe it.

  Kate

  I watch Julia stop by a small green door set into a much larger one a full two storeys high. If I follow her now, everything’s going to change.

  She turns. ‘Are you coming?’

  Ned knows where I am, I tell myself firmly. He can reach me if he wants to. I miss the children more than I’d have thought possible, but the truth is, they’re better off without me. I’m not surprised they won’t answer my calls. What kind of mother am I if I can’t even hold on to my baby?

  It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t help it.

  Then why do I feel so guilty?

  I cross the narrow side street, which is just off the Spanish Steps, and follow Julia through the small door, feeling a little like Alice in Wonderland trailing after the White Rabbit. It’s a sensation that’s reinforced when I unexpectedly find myself in a cool, shadowed courtyard dotted with lemon and lime trees, right in the heart of Rome’s most expensive shopping district. Apartments overlook us on all four sides, but the courtyard itself is open to the bright blue sky.

  I crane my neck. ‘Which floor is he on?’

  ‘Sixth. He’s got a lovely little roof terrace with the most amazing view across the city.’

  ‘Are you sure I can afford this?’

  ‘I told you. Luca doesn’t want much rent if you don’t mind watering the plants and taking care of his parrot,’ Julia says. ‘He only ever lets this apartment to friends. It’s not really about the money – he just wants someone to keep an eye on the place when he’s away over the summer.’

  ‘Let’s hope I get good tips at work,’ I say drily.

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ Julia says. ‘I told you, you can stay with me as long as you like.’

  ‘I know. But I’d rather stand on my own two feet.’

  Waitressing may not pay much, but I can’t keep putting things on my credit card. Alessio was as good as his word: he persuaded his Uncle Maurizio to give me a job at the bar, and I should be able to earn enough to pay a peppercorn rent and put food on the table. That’s all I need for now.

  Since Ned finally called a week ago, I’ve been on pins waiting for him to turn up on the doorstep. I’d be surprised if he showed that much initiative, but there’s no knowing what a lack of clean underpants might drive a man to.

  But he hasn’t come. Nor has he called again. I have to start to get used to the idea of a life without him, and finding a place of my own is the first step.

  ‘Let’s hope you can still stand on your own two feet when you’ve climbed six flights of stairs,’ Julia says as we start up a staircase on the far side of the courtyard.

  ‘No lift, I suppose?’

  She grins. Grasping the iron banister, I follow her up the worn stone steps, wishing I hadn’t quit my aerobics classes. By the time we reach the top floor, I’m red-faced and out of breath.

  Julia presses the buzzer as I lean against the wall panting, my hands on my knees.

  The door opens, and I curse the law of nature that ensures a woman inevitably runs into a handsome man when she looks her absolute worst. I’d put Luca in his mid-forties, but he has the rangy, snake-hipped body of a teenager, with lean legs in faded jeans, a perfectly cut navy blazer, and a tight white T-shirt that shows off a well-defined six-pack.

  ‘You always were a sucker for a pretty face,’ Julia whispers, grinning.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay,’ Luca says, kissing Julia on the cheek and bowing courteously at me. ‘Someone is waiting. If you have any questions, please, call me.’ He kisses Julia again. ‘Baci, cara.’

  Apart from the fact that I need oxygen to climb the stairs, the apartment is perfect. Its single bedroom is light and airy, if a little masculine, with billowing navy curtains at its shuttered windows and a wrought-iron four-poster bed draped in crisp white muslin and made up with white linen sheets. A wooden fan – a rarity in Rome – turns gently overhead. The antique freestanding wardrobe is small, taking perhaps seven hangers front to rear instead of sideways, but there’s a large chest of drawers on the other side of the room, and anyway, I do
n’t have many clothes.

  The sitting room has a more feminine imprint. Crammed with antique furniture that has clearly seen better days, there are two pale green sofas facing each other across a low coffee table, a pretty escritoire off to one side, and, scattered around the walls, several mismatching chairs in various shades of gold and ochre. Three or four small side tables are covered with silver-framed photographs. I suspect Luca’s mother furnished the room with family cast-offs. A wife would have insisted on new curtains.

  The kitchen and bathroom are basic, equipped with appliances that probably predate the Roman Empire, but the stunning roof terrace, with its breathtaking views across the city, more than makes up for it. Scarlet geraniums spill out of pots at each corner, and a bright yellow awning protects against the heat of the day. It’s like a different world up here among the chimney pots, far from the chaos and noise of the traffic below. Worth the climb.

  ‘You don’t need to worry about paying for electricity or water,’ Julia says as we shade our eyes and gaze across the city rooftops. ‘It’s included in the rent. There’s no phone or cable, but you’ve got your mobile, and I can always lend you a few books if you get bored. Luca won’t need it again until October, so for the next six months, it’s all yours.’

  ‘I won’t need it anywhere near that long,’ I say quickly, not sure I believe myself. ‘Where’s the infamous parrot?’

  ‘In the bathroom behind the shower curtain. Luca says to move the cage when you want to take a shower, but otherwise keep her there or she squawks and annoys the neighbours. He hates her, but his dead grandmother left her to him, so he can’t get rid of her.’

  ‘And it’s OK if I bring Sawyer 2?’

  The little ginger kitten and I seem to have adopted each other in the past few weeks. Every night, he curls up on top of the bedspread in the crook of my knees, his vibrant purr lulling me to sleep. I’d hate to leave him behind.

  ‘As long as you keep him away from the parrot, I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

  I tilt my head to the sun. ‘It’s perfect,’ I sigh happily.