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They stop when she approaches and she smiles. ‘Hey, Neil, how are you?’ She puts a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and propels her towards the car. ‘Sorry to rush off,’ she tells him, ‘we’re running late as usual.’
‘No problem,’ Neil calls after them. ‘Have a good day!’
Viv smiles and waves, but once they’re in the car she turns to her daughter. ‘What were you two talking about so avidly?’
Cleo shrugs. ‘Just Fortnite, gaming, that sort of thing. He knows quite a bit about it because his son’s into it.’
Viv puts the key in the ignition and glances at her in amazement. ‘He has a son? He never said.’
‘Yeah, he lives with his ex-wife, apparently. Why, what’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with it, it just seems odd he’s never said so before.’ Neil was someone who really liked to chat about himself, and it did seem strange he hadn’t mentioned such a huge part of his life. She can’t stop mulling it over as she pulls away from the kerb and checks her rear-view mirror, where she sees Neil grinning enthusiastically after them. He’d once told her that he was an IT consultant, but it occurs to her that in all the time he’s lived next door he’s never seemed to have a job to go off to, or at least, not that she’s noticed.
After she drops Cleo at the bus stop she edges slowly through the morning traffic towards the café, and her mind returns to Ruby. Her sister would have turned forty-eight this year, Noah would be a grown man. Perhaps he’d have had kids of his own. For years afterwards, Viv had tortured herself with ‘what ifs’. What if she’d called an ambulance straight away? What if she’d tried to get help rather than running off to hide? Might Noah have been saved? As a child she would be plagued with thoughts of Noah’s tiny heart beating on even after Ruby’s had stopped, until it too had ceased. It was a thought that made her breathless with pain. Later, much, much later, she’d read that no baby can survive longer than fifteen minutes in utero after the death of its mother, that no ambulance would have reached their cottage in time. But still the guilt has never left her, the belief that she could have done something, anything, to save them both. She should have protected her sister. She should have stopped Jack, somehow. After all, she’d been the only other person there.
As she parks and makes her way to the café, Viv considers phoning her mother to let her know she’s thinking of her, but decides against it. Stella doesn’t like to dwell on today’s date, and that’s understandable. After all, she has her own demons to fight; her own ‘what ifs’. What if she hadn’t gone to work that day? What if she’d fought harder to keep Jack Delaney away from Ruby? Now that Viv has her own child, she feels only too keenly how Stella must punish herself, even after all these years.
She thinks again of the dismal iris-strewn grave, the two names on the temporary wooden cross, and bites back her tears. She and her mother had never once returned to their old village to pay their respects in that crooked and crowded churchyard. Perhaps they should have: perhaps it might have given them some sort of closure. After all, her sister would have wanted her to be happy, to get on with her life. And Vivienne was happy. Yet thirty-two years on the nightmares persist, as if something is holding her back from moving on completely. She wonders if she ever will.
She’s grateful when she opens the door of her café, soothed by its cosy familiarity. She takes in the mismatched wooden tables, the large yellow sofa, the box of children’s toys and shelves full of books and board games, the paintings by a local artist on the wall, and feels her tension ease, glad of a day’s work ahead to distract her. It’s her new employee Agnes’s first day today, and she spends time showing her the ropes. Agnes is eighteen with a nervous little face and round hazel eyes that seem perpetually baffled by the world, but proves herself a fast learner nonetheless, and after the morning rush, the café settles down to its usual steady stream of customers and bustling ordinariness.
It’s heading towards lunchtime when she spots the middle-aged woman with streaks of blue in her hair and shiny orange DMs walking past the café’s windows. She squints in consternation, not quite able to place her. When it finally dawns on her she gives an excited shriek and runs out, calling after the woman’s departing back, ‘Hayley! Hey, Hayley, wait!’
The woman turns and with a shout of recognition retraces her steps and they meet together in a hug.
‘Vivienne!’ she cries. ‘I don’t believe it!’ Her West Country accent is as strong as ever, and she has the same wide, gapped-tooth smile she’d known from when they’d lived together in the commune. They pull apart and look at each other in amazement. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ Hayley asks.
‘This is my café!’
‘Your …? No way!’
‘Come and have a coffee!’ Vivienne says, dragging her into Ruby’s.
Once they’re seated, Vivienne drinks her in. The changes since she last knew Hayley as a twenty-something student are there – a few crow’s feet, a few pounds extra weight – but apart from that there’s barely any difference. She remembers how Hayley used to turn a blind eye when she and Samar pilfered weed from her stash, how they would hang out in her bedroom for hours listening to her talk about politics and feminism, how she’d give them books to read and lend them her Joni Mitchell albums.
‘I’ve not long moved back to the area,’ Hayley tells her. ‘Went to live in Bristol for a bit, then got a job down here. Been in social work for a decade.’ She beams at Viv. ‘How’s your mum doing? I often think of her.’
‘She’s well. Still running her refuge.’
Hayley nods. ‘Heart of gold that woman, always had.’
‘Do you ever see any of the others?’ Viv asks.
‘Well, Jo moved to Spain, as you know. Sometimes hear from Sandra and Christine, though they split up a few years ago.’
‘Yeah, I think my mum mentioned it. But how about Rafferty Wolf? He must be in his thirties now – whatever happened to him?’ Viv smiles in disbelief at the thought.
‘He changed his name by deed poll to Martin, and works in data inputting I believe.’ When Viv laughs she adds with a grin, ‘I think Christine’s just about over it, but it took a while.’
Next they talk about Kay. ‘She – or rather, he – transitioned a few years ago,’ Hayley tells her. ‘Calls himself Kyle these days. And Soren sadly passed away some years ago, as you probably heard.’
Viv nods sombrely at this. She thinks about her years in the commune, the warmth and support of those women who’d made such an impression on her life and who, like Hayley, must be in their fifties or even sixties. Margo must be in her early eighties. Their eyes meet suddenly, then skitter away. Margo’s is the only name that has remained unspoken by them both and Viv almost feels her there, a malevolent ghost sitting at the table with them. It goes without saying that none of the women kept in touch with the commune’s founder, and Viv still feels the same tug of disgust and confusion as she did all those years before. She hesitates, debating whether to tell Hayley about the time she’d caught sight of Margo a few years back, then decides against it. Her exit from Unity House had been such a painful episode for them all – why dredge it up after all these years?
‘God, you’ve done well for yourself,’ Hayley says, glancing around the café admiringly. ‘I’m so bloody proud of you.’ She raises her eyebrows, ‘And are you married? Kids?’
‘One daughter, very much single. You? Any man in your life?’
‘God no – can’t stand the fuckers,’ Hayley replies cheerfully, and Viv laughs.
The lunchtime rush is getting under way as Hayley leaves for her meeting, promising to keep in touch. Despite Agnes’s help, Viv barely has time to surface before two thirty when things begin to calm down. She’s about to make herself a coffee when she turns to see the doctor walking in.
She smiles. ‘Hello again, did you have a nice weekend?’
He stops and nods. ‘Yes, thank you. I had both days off, so …’
‘Lovely! And did you get up to much?’
He hesitates before answering but then says, ‘Not really, no. I met up with some friends.’
So perhaps no kids, and he doesn’t wear a wedding ring … And then he asks politely, ‘And you? How was your weekend? Not working either, I hope.’
‘No, it was quiet; it’s just me and my daughter, so you know … footie practice and so on.’
‘Ah,’ he says, nodding.
Sensing that he’s about to move off, she blurts, ‘Do you have kids yourself?’
Something passes across his face. ‘A daughter, also. She lives with my ex-wife in Kosovo now.’
‘Oh, I see. That must be hard.’
He nods and gives a slight shrug that seems to say, ‘It is what it is.’ And then with a final smile he goes to his usual table and pulls out his notepad and begins to write.
It’s only half an hour later when a courier arrives to deliver a parcel. It’s a plain cardboard box, long and slim with no business address label – unusual for deliveries to the café. When she opens it she gives a start. Inside is a large bunch of dying irises. There’s no message or note, no indication from where it came, nothing but the flowers, petals beginning to wither, browning around the leaves. It’s not the sort of bouquet sent by a florist – no card, no plant food, no pouch of water – and as she stares uncomprehendingly down at it her heart begins to beat faster. Who would send irises, Ruby’s favourite flowers, on the anniversary of her death? She looks up and meets the doctor’s gaze and, flustered, turns away.
‘I’m just … I’ll be back soon,’ she tells a startled Agnes. When she runs outside it’s to see the courier already speeding off on his motorbike. Wrapping her cardigan around her she crosses the road to the Rye, sits on a bench and, realizing that she’s close to tears, pulls out her phone.
Samar answers on the third ring. ‘Hello, love,’ he says. ‘What’s up?’
‘Sammy, did you send me flowers?’
‘Nope. Why? Should I have?’
‘I had a delivery of a box of half-dead irises.’
‘Um … OK …?’
‘They were Ruby’s favourite flower,’ she says impatiently. ‘We had them on her gravestone. Today’s the anniversary …’ she hears her voice rise in distress.
‘Oh love. Oh God, I’m so sorry. But it’s a coincidence, surely? Or … maybe Stella sent them?’
‘No, definitely not, Mum would never do that. It’s so weird.’
‘Well, maybe you have a secret admirer …’
She sighs unhappily. ‘Look, I have to get back to the café. I just wanted to check it wasn’t you.’
‘Viv, wait, are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. I’ve got to go. I’ll speak to you soon.’
As she hurries back across the road, she thinks about Samar’s theory of a secret admirer and Shaun’s face flashes across her mind. But why would he send her flowers? Half-dead ones at that?
Her unease lasts for the rest of the afternoon and she barely notices when the doctor says goodbye. Perhaps Shaun was responsible. After all, he’d been hanging around her house the night before – and God knows how long he’d been doing that for. Samar might be right: the date and choice of flowers were sheer coincidence. Who else, after all, knew they were Ruby’s favourite flowers, apart from her mother and Samar? The answer trickles through her like icy water: Jack. Jack Delaney knows what Ruby’s favourite flowers were. Same as he knows the anniversary of her death. It’s a date he’d hardly be likely to forget. Nausea churns inside her. It can’t be him. It couldn’t possibly be. In one quick movement she picks up the box and throws it in the bin, then she leaves, locking the café door behind her with shaking fingers.
Her double French lesson finally over, the bell rings for lunch and Cleo rises with her classmates to head for the canteen. Surreptitiously, checking that no one’s watching her, especially sharp-eyed Layla, she reaches into her bag to check her phone. Sure enough, ‘What are you doing that for?’ Layla asks. ‘You’ll get detention if they see you, you know.’
Cleo sighs and drops the phone back into her bag, but not before she’s noticed there are no new messages from Daniel. Grumpily she rolls her eyes at her friend. ‘You’re such a bloody goody two shoes sometimes,’ she says and walks off towards the girls’ toilets, Layla staring after her in surprise.
Later, sitting in her history class, Cleo gazes distractedly out of the window. She’s going to her gran’s today after school, because her mum’s breaking in some new girl at the café and can’t leave early, and the thought does nothing to improve her mood. She used to love spending time at Stella’s, but lately things have changed. It was a few months ago that it happened. Stella had been busy with one of her guests and, feeling bored, Cleo had gone upstairs to her gran’s bedroom to find a book to read.
For a few minutes she’d browsed through Stella’s large, shell-covered jewellery box, something she used to love doing when she was little – her grandmother’s bright and shiny pieces being far more exciting than the plain silver things her mum wore. But, tiring of this too, she’d moved to the bookshelf, running her eyes along the spines, hoping to find something as racy and eye-opening as The Women’s Room, the last book she’d pilfered from her gran’s collection. Spotting one called The Female Eunuch and thinking it sounded promising, she’d reached up and pulled it from its spot, a tightly bound bundle of envelopes falling out as she did so.
She’d picked the letters up and examined them with interest. Having recently watched The Notebook she was full of hope that she’d accidentally discovered evidence of a secret passion between her grandmother and a long-lost love akin to the one between Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams. She hesitated, listening out for signs that Stella might be nearby, but hearing nothing, opened one.
As her eyes scanned the words her tummy twisted in confusion. Quickly she put the first letter back in its envelope before pulling out another, and then another, her shock rising with each line she read. When she’d finished, she caught sight of her own stunned face in Stella’s dressing table mirror. Did her mother know about this? If she did, then she had been lying to Cleo her whole life. And if she didn’t, then Stella had been lying to both of them. She sank onto her grandmother’s bed, trying to make sense of it all. Her mum wouldn’t lie to her, would she? But if she hadn’t, then that made Stella the liar … and how could that be? Hearing footsteps on the stairs she hurriedly stuffed the letters back into their hiding place, but when she next saw her grandmother, she’d found it hard to meet her gaze.
After her history lesson, Cleo hurries to the girls’ toilets and pulls her mobile out, her heart lifting when she sees a new message from Daniel. Hey gorgeous, it says. What u up to?
Hey, she replies. School, what about u?
Same, hiding in loo so I can text u, lol. She smiles but feels a jolt of surprise when she reads his next message. U have a boyfriend?
Cleo hesitates. No, why?
Would u like one?
Maybe. He can’t see her, but still she goes red.
Would u be my girlfriend?
She hesitates again. OK.
U ever kissed a boy?
She stares at the question without answering. It feels as though the fairground ride she’d been enjoying has suddenly accelerated. No, she eventually types.
I’d like to kiss u.
She feels the heat in her cheeks. U don’t know me …
No, but u seem really nice, from ur picture and the things u say. But that’s OK, I no I’m not good looking, we can just be friends if u like, it’s cool.
U are good looking. Ur really handsome.
As she leaves the toilets she finds she can’t stop grinning, and the tiny flicker of doubt she’d felt has all but disappeared by the time she reaches her next class.
Viv drives the short distance to her mother’s, still thinking about the flowers. Stella’s street is almost in sight, but the traffic lights are out of order and she’s caught in the resulting gridlock. Tapping her fingers on the steering wheel in frustration, she tries to lighten her mood by thinking about her encounter with Hayley earlier. Hearing about the other women – and poor Rafferty Wolf – had been so lovely, and idly she wonders if it might be possible to organize some kind of reunion for them all, at Stella’s place perhaps.
Reluctantly, her thoughts turn to Margo. In the twenty-two years since she left Unity House, Viv had seen her only once. It had been in a supermarket in Herne Hill that Viv happened to be passing and had dived into to escape the rain. She’d been browsing magazines when she’d looked up to see an elderly black woman walking with a stick. Viv had known instantly who she was; despite the intervening years her striking features were unmistakable. The older woman had turned her head and they had locked eyes. And it was the strangest thing. Viv wasn’t sure what she’d expected: shame, perhaps – guilt, almost certainly. But the look on Margo’s face had been something else entirely, an emotion she never thought she’d see in those beautiful brown eyes. Shocked and angry, Viv had turned and left without acknowledging her and never went back to that supermarket. Whenever she thought of it she’d bristled with disgust, her sense of betrayal visceral and raw once more. The traffic jam shifts at last and she turns into Stella’s road, the memory of that unsettling meeting lingering.
Getting out of her car, she sees Shaun smoking a cigarette outside her mother’s house and feels a sudden burst of fury.
‘All right?’ he leers, when he sees her.
‘So it’s not just my house you smoke your fags outside?’ she snaps.
‘Come again?’
His arrogant, handsome face is repulsive to her now. ‘I saw you. Hanging around outside my house last night. What do you think you’re playing at?’
‘Free country, ain’t it?’
‘Was it you who sent me flowers?’
He bursts out laughing. ‘Me, send you flowers? Off your head, you are!’
And all at once she knows with absolute certainty that the irises hadn’t come from him. ‘Leave me alone,’ she says, turning away to hide her mortification. ‘Next time I see you in my street, I’ll call the police.’
‘Yeah, you do that, love.’ He blows out a long stream of smoke and laughs. ‘Fucking nutjob.’
Her mother’s in the kitchen when she goes in. ‘Where’s Cleo?’ she asks, looking around for her daughter.
‘Hmm? Oh, not sure. Maybe she went to the loo.’
She thinks of Cleo wandering around upstairs, where Shaun could happen by at any moment, and says crossly, ‘For God’s sake Mum, don’t you know?’
Going out into the hall, she calls her daughter’s name. ‘I’m in the bathroom!’ is the response, and Vivienne waits in the hall, trying to regain her composure. She shouldn’t have spoken to her mother like that, today of all days.
When she goes back she touches Stella’s shoulder. ‘Sorry for snapping. How are you?’
‘Oh … you know …’ she replies with a sigh.
‘Yeah.’ Viv nods. ‘I know.’
When Cleo comes back in, Stella says tartly, ‘There you are. Thought you’d fallen in. Expect you took your phone up there, did you?’
‘Oh, give it a rest, Gran,’ Cleo says. ‘Stop hassling me.’
