Daughters (37 page)

‘I will ask you to keep repeating that.’

‘Will you come in?’ He gestured to the interior.

Lara hesitated. ‘I’m on my way to the wedding.’

‘Shouldn’t you be rushing around doing things?’

‘I should, but for two things. I’ve been sidelined – stepmothers you know – and the fall-out with Eve.’

‘Eve hasn’t forgiven you?’

‘No. Not surprising. I should have consulted you before I did it.’ She flashed him a wry smile. ‘On the other hand, whatever I said was going to come out badly.’ She stepped into the flat. ‘You haven’t replied to the invitation.’

He pointed to a stack of post. ‘Forgive me? I haven’t worked my way through that yet.’

‘I thought as much,’ she said. ‘Army training wouldn’t allow you not to answer one way or another if you’d received it. So I kept a place, just in case.’

He grinned. ‘I might not be able to come.’

‘That’s fine. Just say.’

‘I haven’t got the outfit.’

‘Does that matter?’

They exchanged a look and she felt better. ‘No,’ he replied.

‘Well, then. Come in whatever you want.’

‘Do
you
want me to come?’

‘Why do you think I’m here?’ She paused. ‘Could I have a glass of water?’

While he fetched it, she looked around. His flat was, as she might have imagined, austere: the furniture was nondescript; everything was clean and had its place. But it was fusty and unused. Unloved. She went over to the window and folded her arms. Outside, the London traffic roared.

She heard him put the glass on the table and walk over to her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, turned her around, and unpeeled her arms from the defensive position. He seemed to radiate sympathy, which soothed her
immediate fears, so much so that she was frightened she might break down.

‘What matters,’ he said, ‘is that you’re here.’

‘Does it?’

‘It does.’ He touched the bare skin at her wrist where her pulse beat. ‘I’m sorry about Eve. Quite a decision to have made and I know you’re frightened she might not forgive you.’

She could have done without the ambiguity when she craved to be told that everything would be all right. ‘Have you come back for good, Robin? Or will you be going away again?’

‘I’m back.’

‘Why did you go away? There was no need.’

He held her gaze, conveying meanings she did not, as yet, know or understand. That lay in the future? She hoped so.

‘I hate being at the mercy of myself … I couldn’t bear it that you saw me in that state. At least, then …’ His smile conveyed regret. ‘Couldn’t have been worse, could it? There I was, about to seduce you, and what happens?’

She laughed. ‘Start as you mean to go on.’

‘A man’s pride?’

‘And a woman’s,’ she added tartly. ‘Are you feeling better?’

The bald prim words did not match the intensity behind the question or the apprehension with which she awaited his answer.

‘Much.’ He seemed pretty sure. ‘And you?’

‘After the wedding I’ll feel much better.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘You know what I mean.’

She did: had her ghosts been laid, and her wounds healed?

Jasmine calculated that, if she was clever, she could avoid Duncan at the dinner. And at the wedding? They would have to perform with each other but they were adults. They would cope.

There was no point in telling Eve about the situation yet … no point in tarnishing her pleasure. Or in telling anyone. She had kept it to herself – and was sure that Duncan would do the same until after the wedding.

The funny thing was, she wasn’t missing him as much as she had imagined. If anything, a small, inner coal of excitement at her freedom had been lit and was gradually accumulating heat. Far from mourning, her main reaction was
I’ve had
a lucky escape
.

She rang up her landlord and gave three months’ notice, then instructed an agent to find her a flat that was closer to her office. She had no doubt that this was the moment to take decisions and strike out along a different road.

Banking on keeping busy, she worked late and with feverish application, shifting between projects, pitches and long meetings. The upshot? She was exhausted – just as she wished it. After work she carried out small tasks in a meticulous fashion: trips to the hairdresser, the beautician.

In the early days of work, on leaving the office, she sometimes glanced up at the building. It appeared to be sheathed in gold, a place of promise and opportunity, where she had only to stretch out a hand to grasp its
rewards. When, at last, she left for the wedding, it was bathed in light, still as golden, still as promising.

The night before she left for Membury, she packed with the utmost care. After she had finished, she went around the flat, removed every photograph of Duncan she possessed and shovelled them into a plastic bag.

Eve rang. ‘I’m in the street,’ she said. ‘Do you want to go for a coffee? My last as a single woman.’

Still clutching the bag, Jasmine clattered down the steps. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Why indeed?’ said Eve. ‘I just wanted to hear your voice, Jas. Just wanted to see you.’

Us two.

Jasmine tucked the bag under her arm. ‘Do you want me to tell you a story about beautiful girl who met a handsome banker?’

Eve laughed. ‘I never want to organize anything ever again.’

‘I’ll remind you of that.’

For a moment, she was silhouetted against the darkening sky.

Thin and, oh, so fragile.

‘Evie, I love you,’ said Jasmine.

‘
Do
you? Promise me you always will.’

‘You don’t need to ask,’ said Jasmine.

‘Me, too. Always, Jas.
Always.
’

The traffic roared past. ‘Shall we have that coffee?’

They progressed up the street. The bride was restless and nervy. Hardly surprising. ‘What have you got here?’ She snatched at the bag.

‘Don’t,’ said Jasmine. ‘Boring.’

‘OK,’ said Eve. ‘What’s the mystery?’

‘The mystery is why you’re here and not resting,’ said Jasmine. ‘But let’s go.’

‘So what
is
in there?’

‘Boring,’ said Jasmine.

As they passed the litter bin outside the takeaway, she dropped the bag into it.

It was a rational thing to do.

Andrew insisted on driving Eve and Jasmine to Membury. ‘There’s not much else for me to do,’ he pointed out, ‘and it means I can escape from my mother, who’s driving me nuts.’

He and Eve chatted together in the front. Once, he directed a question to Jasmine in the back: ‘Nervous?’

Her reply was cool and unfriendly. ‘No. You?’

‘Yes. Frankly.’

Jasmine observed the back of Andrew’s head. Like many bridegrooms, he’d had a haircut that was just a bit too fierce and didn’t suit him. He didn’t look like a man who would deceive his bride-to-be, but he probably was and she would have to deal with it.

‘Have you been in touch with Mum?’ she asked Eve.

‘Only briefly.’

They arrived mid-morning at the house. The drive was packed with catering and florist vans. Down in the sunken garden, the marquee was up, and burly men, with leather tool belts strung across their middles, were testing guy ropes and pillars.

They trooped over to inspect it. A pair of clipped bay trees flanked the entrance, and several more had been positioned inside.

Surrounded by pails of flowers – foamy hydrangeas and lilies, pots of vivid green baby’s breath and peony roses in blush pink and cream – was Sarah. Clearly harassed. Water slopped over the wooden floor. ‘I need a table.’ She was too preoccupied to greet them properly. ‘Can you get me one, Andrew?’

The bride swept into action. Lists in hand, she moved around the tent checking the (elegant) striped lining, the positioning of the windows, the arrangement of tables, and the florists, who were working on the pillars. Jasmine noticed they kept their distance from Sarah.

‘God knows where your father is.’ Sarah buttonholed Jasmine: ‘Could you fetch the vases for the table centres?’ She stuck her head towards Jasmine. ‘My hands are wet. Can you brush back my hair? It’s in my eyes.’ Without taking a breath, she pelted on: ‘I
have
to get started. They’re in the kitchen.’

By the time, Jasmine had ferried the vases to the marquee, the electricians had fixed up the chandeliers and the ‘stars’ that would shine in the ceiling, and had run fairy lights through the bay trees. A start had been made in laying the black and white carpet tiles over the flooring and creating the dance floor and the aisles between the tables. Sarah pounced on the vases and issued many orders to Mrs Baker from the village who had been employed to help.

Mrs Baker – sturdy and aproned – looked bewildered
and Jasmine offered to show her the kitchen. ‘Are you the bride?’ she asked Jasmine.

‘No,’ replied Jasmine. ‘I’m the eldest sister.’

Mrs Baker thought about this and said kindly, ‘Well, never mind, dear. Next time.’

‘Right,’ said Jasmine, and fled into the garden.

As she ran down the steps, tortoiseshell butterflies clung to the spikes of late-blooming lavender and, in the place where the wild flowers grew, dozens more glided through the sunshine.

From her own reading, she knew the spectacle was deceptive. Autumn was coming and provision for it was being made out of sight. Where the butterflies danced seemingly without heed, the bees were laying in stores in the hive, working on the nectar at night to turn it into honey and foraging hard through the day.

Her father emerged around the side of the house. He was in protective clothes and obviously hive-bound. Sprinting up to him, she called, ‘Dad!’

He waited by the kitchen door. ‘Hello, Bridesmaid.’

‘You look to be the only calm person on the planet.’

He laughed and gestured at the kitchen where several figures whisked to and fro. ‘Despite appearances, Sarah’s enjoying herself. She wouldn’t admit it, but she’s in her element.’

His skin was clear, and he looked relaxed, content. ‘You’re very happy with Sarah,’ she said.

‘I am, Jasmine.’

Did he murmur ‘at last’? Or perhaps he’d thought it. Whatever. On Lara’s behalf, she experienced another kind
of jealousy. A fierce, protective regret for the happiness he had not had with her.

‘Coming with me? I’m going to tell the bees about the wedding tomorrow. Can’t take any chances. Hang on. I’ll fetch you some gear.’

She hadn’t fully registered the sea-change in her father until now. The father who, during their fractured childhood, had stuck to the downbeat and practical, had turned into a man who considered it perfectly natural to tell the bees of family events. ‘I didn’t know you were a closet romantic.’

‘Whatever that means. Nor did I.’

They walked companionably over the lawn – no longer damp underfoot after the brief hot spell. The path, too, had dried, and dust puffed up as they walked along it.

‘Since we’re here for a wedding, can I ask something, Dad?’

‘Ask.’

‘Are you and Mum ever going to be reconciled properly? Isn’t this the moment?’

‘That’s a facer, Jas,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I can answer it. You can’t just decide to be reconciled.’

‘I disagree.’

‘You don’t know enough yet, Jas.’

But I do
.

‘Has Lara ever discussed it with you?’ She shook her head. ‘Perhaps I should tell you what happened.’

He wasn’t happy talking about it to her. His voice deepened and the hesitations grew more marked. It was a story about trust that had gone wrong – and she
listened with some despair for its constituents chimed with her story.

My story
.

The ultimate goal in the branding game. My mayonnaise. My face cream. My failed love affair.

‘It wasn’t Lara’s fault that I was in the state I was in.’

‘Which was?’

‘Utter terror. A conviction that I had been marked by Fate, or God, or whoever. Bad luck does accrue around some. It’s a force field.’ Even now, his pain was evident. ‘I think I was too tired to fight it.’

She wondered if he was now finding it easier to talk to her because she was the child he knew least well.

‘I couldn’t find a way to forgive Lara.’

‘Mum was so young when you married her,’ she pointed out. ‘How could she have known how deep your terror was? How could she have understood? No one could have foreseen the coincidence. Anyway, she paid for it.’

‘Yes, she did.’ He stepped into the paddock. ‘We all did. There are not many days when I don’t remember Louis … just for a second or two.’

‘I used to think your children didn’t matter to you very much.’

Her father pointed to a chestnut tree in the field across the road. ‘We might have played conkers. We might have gone to matches …’

He didn’t mention his daughters. He certainly didn’t try to reassure her. But that, she now realized, was OK.

They would never be very close. But close enough. That was plain to see. Despite their shared blood and
bone, the chemistry between them lacked an essential ingredient. Not so with Eve.

Yet in the space between the beginning of the story and its end something had changed. She understood him better and the knowledge altered the way she would think about the past.

After all, she and he did own something in common, which was a relative ease in their dealings. A comfortable not-too-high-expectation relationship. Which was good enough.

He brushed some earth off his fingers.

Yes, it was good enough.

‘You reckon the bees will be angry if you don’t give them news flashes?’ They were approaching the hive – Jasmine lagging a few feet behind her father.

Bill wielded the smoke can. ‘If you listen, the hive has its own music.’ He stooped to examine the entrance. ‘The nectar is drying up, which means they get irritable. Bored and restless bees spell trouble. And …’ He picked up the body of a dead bee by the entrance and held it up. In the golden September sun, its tiny form seemed shockingly vulnerable. ‘See? Its wings have been torn off by the female workers. It had become superfluous.’

As it was September, the angle of the sun dipped lower. In the hedge surrounding the field, full-bellied hips ripened. Translucent clusters of berries glowed Schiaparelli pink and scarlet. Swallows gathered on the telegraph wires across the road.