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The other person in the photo.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Marking homework?’
Lizzie jumped. She’d been so engrossed in her gardening books she didn’t hear Gerry’s key in the lock. She’d only just reached April and the things that should have been done by now already stretched to three pages of an exercise book.
‘A gardening book?’ He looked surprised.
With one sock-clad foot Lizzie kicked a half-eaten packet of chocolate HobNobs under the coffee table and out of Gerry’s line of sight. Only that morning he’d grabbed her bum as she struggled into size twelve jeans – jeans that now cut into her middle, forcing a roll of flesh over the waistband – and made some comment about her ‘filling her jeans’.
How had that happened? Only last autumn she’d been comfortable in her favourite size tens. Now she was on the verge of swapping the twelves for the fourteens she kept under her bed for just such emergencies. Some people, people who mostly didn’t need to lose weight in the first place – Nicci, for example – responded to life’s traumas by losing their appetite. The heartbreak diet.
Lizzie was the total opposite; her emotional history mapped out in junk food. Recently, this ran:
1) Mother with Alzheimer’s – one packet of chocolate HobNobs.
2) Row with sister, over Mother – whole tube of Pringles. 3) Best friend’s funeral – bottle of dry white and a bowl of peanuts with takeaway pizza chaser, repeat as necessary.
4) Fight with Gerry about giving up teaching to become a proper wife/mother; her timekeeping; what she/he was doing at the weekend
(
delete as applicable) – that happened so often it barely merited more than the bar of Sainsbury’s cooking chocolate she’d hidden from herself at the back of the freezer.
Hunger had nothing to do with it.
Closing the gardening book, Lizzie stretched her cheek up to receive his kiss. Gerry had the kind of whiskers that meant if he shaved at 8 a.m., he had a beard by lunchtime. It was early evening now. There were days she felt she could get a rash just by looking at him.
‘Pooh,’ she said. ‘You smell beery.’
Gerry winked. ‘I am beery,’ he said. ‘Nineteenth hole.’
‘Thought it was rugby today.’ She didn’t need to glance at her watch to know he’d spent far more hours in the clubhouse than he had on the course.
‘Golf. Told you this morning. Anyway, I knew you’d be out so I went for a late lunch with the guys after.’
And drove home? Lizzie wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, she reached for her book, flicking to a boxout on compost.
What was the difference between peat, loam and ericaceous compost? Who cared and why would it matter? She couldn’t believe Nicci had. Nicci had to be more of a ‘shove it in and see what grew’ type of gardener. Didn’t she?
‘How was your mum?’
‘The same,’ she said. ‘Still thinks I’m Aunt Kathleen, though . . . Thanks for asking.’
Crouching down beside her chair, Gerry slipped both arms around her, fingers grazing her breast as they passed. His breath was yeasty on her ear. Lizzie forced herself not to tense.
‘I’m glad you’re not down,’ he said, as his left hand crept back up, cupping her breast.
Lizzie wasn’t in the mood, not really. Some people lost themselves in sex, used it as a release. Mona, for one. And Nicci too, when they were first at college.
Not Lizzie.
She’d always felt a bit out of it like that. A bit uptight – frigid, some git who played rugby had called her in sixth form – but that was just her. She had to feel close, loved and liked to want sex. And she had, with Gerry, in the early years, but now . . .
‘Come upstairs?’
Closing her eyes, Lizzie emptied her mind, forcing herself to go with it as Gerry began kissing her neck, his free hand deftly unbuttoning her shirt. After all, you didn’t get babies without sex and they hadn’t ‘done it’ in almost a month.
They used to have the ‘There’s never a right time to have babies’ row every second month. Back then, Lizzie was the one arguing to start a family. Gerry was too busy, he was in line for another promotion, he wanted to wait until next year when they’d be able to afford another, bigger, house . . . The only argument he never used back then was her job. Because he knew she’d throw that up in a second. It was a job – teaching at the local primary – and she enjoyed it, but it wasn’t her life’s work, not like her sister’s career. Something she’d be willing to ditch when they started a family. Lizzie was positively old-fashioned like that. It was another thing she and Karen didn’t agree on.
Then it changed. Gerry started talking about babies and she – Lizzie hardly dared say it – began to wonder if the time was right.
But she’d always wanted a family.
Lizzie could remember her elation the first time she’d mentioned babies over breakfast and he hadn’t flinched. That had been a couple of years ago.
The other night, he’d made some comment about the pre-prep school his boss sent his son to. So now he was willing to talk babies; but the local school at which she taught was no longer good enough.
Gerry groaned as his hand eased into her bra and stroked her nipple until it stiffened. His other hand slipped inside her jeans.
No babies without sex, Lizzie reminded herself. And she did want to start a family . . . didn’t she?
Chapter Fourteen
‘Where’s the roasting tin?’
‘Same place as usual, I imagine.’
‘Nu-huh.’ Lizzie shook her head. ‘I’ve looked there, and all the other likely places.’
The two women looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
Jo threw open the kitchen window. ‘David,’ she yelled. ‘What have you done with the roasting tin?’
‘What have I done with . . . ?’ he shouted over the shrieks of two small girls. Having hunted Easter eggs, provided by Jo and hidden by David after they’d gone to bed the night before, Charlie and Harrie were on a carbohydrate high, taking turns to be pushed on the tyre hanging from the old apple tree.
‘Higher, Daddy, higher!’
‘In a sec . . . Nothing. Haven’t touched the damn thing. Do I look like a man who’d know what to do with a roasting tin?’
‘More than Gerry does,’ Lizzie muttered, looking for a cupboard she hadn’t yet searched. ‘Who else would move it? The kitchen ghost?’
She caught Jo’s eye. Jo raised a quizzical eyebrow.
Jo looked tired, Lizzie thought, nothing like herself. The roots were visible in her usually flawlessly highlighted hair and her fringe kept falling into her eyes. She was dressed as if for a ramble: battered biker boots; knackered, not-for-going-out jeans; and what looked suspiciously like one of Si’s fleeces. A fleece? Nicci would have had something to say about that. Maybe that was the point. Nicci couldn’t see them. For the first time in years Jo was at liberty to wear whatever she wanted. They all were. But it was Easter Sunday and the first time they’d all been here, together, since Nicci’s funeral. Lizzie had assumed that meant they’d make an effort. But no.
She felt painfully overdressed. Glancing down at her floral dress and heels, she wondered if there was time to nip home and change.
‘You OK?’
Lizzie snapped back to see Jo looking concerned. ‘Yeah, fine, just spooked myself with the ghost comment,’ she lied. ‘But I didn’t mean it like that. Anyway, if it was Nicci – which it isn’t, obviously – at least she’d have put it back in the right place.’ Jo started to laugh, and after a moment Lizzie joined in.
It was shaping up to be a beautiful Easter weekend, exactly as Jo had hoped. Late April sunshine crept round from the front and in through south-facing windows to throw a strip of gold across the oak table Nicci and David had lovingly sanded and varnished. The Chinese slate floor beneath the table reflected a rainbow of bronzes and gilts. The kitchen was warm from the Aga, the scent of coffee lingered, and the Archers squabbled amongst themselves in the background. Everything was as it should be.
Almost.
When Nicci became too tired to cook Sunday roast for ten, back in the autumn, the others had taken over, with Nicci presiding over the proceedings, passing judgement on the consistency of their stuffing or the sweetness of the apple sauce. And they smiled and gritted their teeth and let her. It was better to go on pretending nothing had changed. All of them – friends, partners and children – had lunched there every Sunday without fail, unless Jo and Si had his kids for the weekend; then they’d appear in the late afternoon after dropping the boys back at their mother’s. Usually just in time for pudding and to help with the third or fourth bottle of wine.
Jo shook the image from her head. ‘Got it!’ she said, emerging from under the sink, roasting tin aloft. ‘Suspect kitchen ghost’s offspring put it there.’
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Mona said, shouldering her way through the back door and kicking it shut with her heel. ‘No reason,’ she added, pre-empting the question. ‘Just late.’
She had once been a year late for Lizzie’s thirtieth birthday party, since when anything less was considered minor.
‘Good to see you.’ Tossing the roasting tin on the side with a clatter, Jo threw her arms around Mona, coat, bags and all; ignoring the look of surprise that flickered across Mona’s face. ‘It’s been too long.’
It had only been a couple of weeks, but that was long by their standards. Lately they weren’t sure which of them was meant to be holding it together. Jo was trying, but it didn’t come naturally. She preferred to watch from the periphery: not so much outside looking in as standing on the edge, with both choices open to her. She wasn’t Nicci; didn’t have that magnetism, the sort that made others gravitate to her.
‘Where’s Dan?’ Lizzie asked. ‘I bought him a tub of Celebrations. He is coming, isn’t he?’
He’s there.’ Mona jerked her head towards the back garden, where her son was already kicking a football. ‘I got organic crumble, real custard, profiteroles and crème fraîche. And organic hot cross buns, just in case.’
‘In case of what,’ Jo laughed. ‘Famine? Apocalypse? Terrorist attack? We’ve got enough food here to feed the entire street.’
Mona’s inedible cooking was the stuff of myth. Since no one could remember ever tasting it, Jo suspected the myth was urban, created by Mona to avoid having to do any. Like Jo’s brother’s famously crap washing-up.
Dumping her coat on the back of a chair, to reveal an embroidered smock over narrow dark jeans and ankle boots, Mona began emptying the contents of her carrier bags into the fridge.
‘What needs doing? More coffee?’ The others shook their heads but Mona filled the kettle anyway. ‘Peel spuds then?’ she offered, and took up position at the sink overlooking the back garden.
For a few minutes the three women worked in companionable silence, Lizzie salting the pork for crackling and slicing apples for apple sauce, Jo chopping nuts for nut roast and Mona peeling a mountain of King Edwards. Bags of carrots, parsnips and broccoli were lined up beside her.
‘Is it me,’ Mona said suddenly, ‘or is this weird?’
‘Is what weird?’ Lizzie said. Her tone made it clear she wished Mona hadn’t put the thought into words.
‘This . . . the three of us preparing Sunday lunch in Nicci’s kitchen, as if nothing’s changed. David and Si and Dan in the garden, Gerry . . .’ Mona frowned. ‘Where’s Gerry?’
‘Rugby. Be here later.’ Lizzie didn’t look up from slicing apples, but Jo noticed her back tense in preparation for the Gerry-related onslaught. Nicci might be gone but clearly Lizzie didn’t think that was about to change.
Jo loved Lizzie. She just wished Lizzie had married someone different. Someone who deserved her.
Mona opened her mouth to say something – probably exactly what Jo was thinking. Jo shot her a warning glance. Back off, she mouthed.
‘It’s you,’ Lizzie said testily. Mona looked at Jo and raised her eyebrows so they vanished into her hair. It was her party trick. Jo stifled a giggle.
‘It’s me what?’
‘You said, is it me or is this weird? It’s you.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Reckon,’ Lizzie snapped. ‘We’re old friends having Sunday lunch together. What’s wrong with that?’
‘You know what Mona means,’ Jo said gently. Where was this coming from? Lizzie was normally resident peacemaker, the one smoothing the sheets and making the tea, not the one lobbing rocks. Maybe Nicci’s spirit was lurking around, hiding roasting tins and making trouble.
‘Come on, Lizzie, you have to admit, it is a bit weird,’ Jo said. ‘Especially the Mona-David thing.’ She glanced around, double-checking little ears – and big ears – were safely outside. ‘I mean, what are we supposed to do about the letters?’
‘Ignore them, that’s what I plan to do,’ Mona banged the potato peeler on the worktop. ‘It’s just another of Nicci’s mad schemes.’ She raised her eyes to heaven, and Jo could have sworn that if Mona had been Catholic she’d have crossed herself.
‘We don’t have to do it.’
‘I don’t know . . .’ Lizzie sounded thoughtful. ‘I feel like we do.’
‘Lizzie!’ Mona said. ‘All you’ve got is a bit of gardening! If Nicci has her way, I have to, well, you know . . . with David!’
‘Mo . . .’ said Jo, but Mona was in full swing.
‘C’mon, Lizzie. Admit it, you got away light.’
‘It might be just a bit of gardening to you,’ Lizzie said tightly, ‘but Nicci knew I can’t even grow a weed! And have you looked out there? It’s a wilderness. How can I get it looking right for David, for Harrie and Charlie?’
Jo and Mona followed Lizzie’s gaze.
It wasn’t strictly true. Although Jo had to admit she’d seen Nicci’s garden in better shape. Not that she could remember even noticing the garden since last September, when Nicci had sat her down in this kitchen, put a large glass of red wine in front of her and told Jo she had cancer.
Since then, the leaves shed in autumn had been swept aside, but not cleared, and were mouldering on the flower-beds. Occasional spring bulbs had fought their way through, but their leaves were straggly as if, with no one to appreciate their efforts, they’d given up trying. Even Nicci’s beloved vegetable patch beyond the apple tree was little more than mud and blown-over runner bean tepees.
Jo was horribly afraid Lizzie was right. The garden looked as desolate as they felt. Somebody had to do something.
‘And even if it wasn’t a wilderness,’ Lizzie’s tone, now verging on hysterical, took Jo by surprise. She looked as panic-stricken as she sounded, ‘I’m not Nicci. I’ll never be Nicci. I don’t know a bromeliad from a perennial.’
The others looked at her in astonishment.
‘What’s a bromeliad?’ Mona asked. ‘Just out of interest.’
‘I don’t know!’ Lizzie wailed. ‘That’s the point. I got a book from the library, and then I got three more. And now I wish I hadn’t. It might as well be Chemistry A level, for all the sense it makes. I mean, it has charts, diagrams, tables.’ Lizzie looked at Jo – the mathsy one – as if she could make it all clear.
Jo had made sure the bills got paid at uni. She divided them up, told you what you owed and you paid. If not for her, the rest of them would have been sitting in the cold, probably in darkness.
‘It can’t be that hard,’ Jo said. ‘Diagrams!’ Lizzie repeated. ‘And tables. You should see the list of things Alan Titchmarsh reckons need to be done by April. Even if I did nothing but garden full time between now and June I couldn’t catch up.’
Jo slid her arms around Lizzie and suppressed a laugh as Lizzie buried her head in Jo’s shoulder. Over Lizzie’s head she saw Mona stuff her hands over her mouth.
‘I mean,’ Lizzie’s words were muffled, ‘how did Nicci fit it all in?’ She let out a wail and Mona, unable to contain herself, dissolved into fits.
‘Come on, Lizzie,’ Jo said, gripping Lizzie’s shoulders and fixing her with an encouraging smile. ‘It’s just a garden. Do it if you want. Don’t if you don’t. But if you decide to do it don’t try to do it Nicci’s way. Otherwise you’re setting yourself up for failure. Do it your way. You know Nicci, she probably just did the bits she wanted to and ignored the rest. That’s how she did everything else. Get out there and scratch the surface and you’ll probably find it’s not as magazine-perfect as it used to look from a distance.’
