Cumin Place didn’t look as if one of its residents had just died. The muggy atmosphere seemed to dampen all sound as Jenny walked to the door of Vanessa’s house and pressed the bell. Francesco was as handsome and well put together as ever when he opened the door, but he was subdued. He wore a light cardigan, slacks and slip-on shoes, like a 1930s catalogue model.
He nodded like he’d been expecting her. ‘Come.’
He walked through to the bedroom and Jenny followed.
The room was brighter than before, curtains tied back, big light on. The bed was stripped, mattress like a white beacon in the darker décor. Francesco pointed at a plastic bag on the floor.
‘Your cameras,’ he said.
Jenny felt a flush to her neck. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Francesco held a tea towel and played with it aimlessly. It was strange seeing an alpha male act like a domestic servant, but Jenny chastised herself for playing along with every stereotype ingrained into her. Why couldn’t a young Italian man do the housework? Why couldn’t he care for an older woman, why couldn’t he pleasure her?
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Jenny said. It was a stock phrase but she meant it. ‘And I’m sorry about the cameras.’
He nodded at the bag. ‘You saw everything?’
Jenny thought about him soaping himself in the shower, making a pot of tea in the kitchen, going down on Vanessa.
‘Yes.’
‘You saw that I love her.’
She felt that flush again, reaching her cheeks this time. ‘Yes.’
‘I love her.’ He folded and unfolded the tea towel.
He was still using the present tense, very common when talking about the recently dead. We want to keep them alive with our language if nothing else.
Jenny moved into the room. She remembered where Vanessa had been, the shape of her body on the bed, the look on her face, the waxiness of her skin.
‘Did the police speak to you?’ she said.
‘They told me everything. Showed me some footage from the cameras.’ He shook his head. ‘I did not know this about eyedrops.’
Jenny sighed. ‘It’s crazy.’
‘You can just buy them and drink them and you’re dead.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I bought them for her. I took her to the doctor, I went to the pharmacy for her medicines. I didn’t want her taking too many things, that can be just as bad as not enough. But she had dry eyes, needed eyedrops. I thought nothing of it.’ He lowered his head. ‘I am to blame.’
She sat next to him on the bed, placed a hand on his knee then thought better of it, held her hands awkwardly in her lap. ‘It’s not your fault.’
He stuck his jaw out. ‘If I didn’t buy them, she would still be here.’
Jenny was only inches from him, but it felt like miles.
‘I don’t understand why,’ she said eventually.
‘What?’
‘Aren’t you curious?’ Jenny angled her head to see into his eyes. ‘They think she would’ve been fit and well if she wasn’t drinking eyedrops. Why was she slowly killing herself?’
Francesco didn’t speak, lowered his head.
‘Do you think she meant to kill herself, or just make herself ill?’ Jenny said.
‘She didn’t mean it to end with her death.’
‘How do you know?’
He held her gaze for a long time then reached under the mattress, pulled out a notebook and handed it to her. ‘Her diary.’
‘Have you shown the police?
He shook his head. ‘It’s not their business. I want to protect her.’
It was a small black Moleskin with a ribbon marker. She opened and read it. Her stomach tightened. She flicked back a page, read again, then more pages, all of them full of desperation and loneliness, how she longed for contact with Maria and Matthew, how she missed them and the children they used to be, wanted to be reconciled, had no other family now her husband and mother were gone. If she got ill, if she needed looking after, needed care and attention then Maria and Matthew would visit, bring her flowers, take her into the garden, sit and talk about their days, then she would feel better.
Jenny kept flicking, scanning the neat handwriting, and found the moment when she discovered that eyedrops could cause her to feel ill. She started drinking them diluted with water, nervous at first but gradually becoming used to it, used to the tiredness and nausea, pale skin, shortness of breath, but still her babies never visited, never called. Then it accelerated. And they didn’t talk to her at all at the funeral, in fact she was surprised they showed up, was sure they’d only done it expecting money from their gran’s will. Then something darker, arguments on the phone with Matthew and especially Maria, the shock realisation that they weren’t the children she’d raised anymore, they were a couple now, an idea that made her want to vomit her life away. So Vanessa kept drinking the stuff, got more ill, kept waiting for a knock on the door, waiting for her children to explain that she’d got it wrong, it was all a misunderstanding. She waited for them to show her some love, to return one iota of the love she’d shown them over the years, changing nappies, playing in the park, helping with homework, taking them to golf and horse riding, all of that forgotten in their disgusting, self-centred lives as they waited for her to die.
Jenny closed the diary and felt tears in her eyes, thought about her own family.
‘Munchausen syndrome,’ Francesco said. ‘I looked it up.’
Jenny breathed deep and long. It suddenly felt too stuffy in here.
‘So she didn’t mean to die?
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Maria and Matthew…’
‘It’s not their fault.’
‘I have to get out of here.’
She ran out of the house, got in the hearse and drove past the Commy Pool and Pollock Halls, round Duddingston Low Road. As she drove, her sorrow hardened to fury, hands gripping the wheel, engine running high, crunching gears. It was only ten minutes to Durham Avenue and she leapt out and walked up the path, grumbling under her breath at that fucking pampas grass, how she’d thought it was funny before.
She banged on the door.
Maria opened it a little then saw Jenny’s face, tried to close it but Jenny had her foot in the way. She could see Matthew lurking in the hall.
‘You fucking pair,’ she said, spittle at the corners of her mouth. ‘It’s all your fault.’
Maria scowled at her. ‘What?’
‘Your mum. She just wanted her ungrateful kids back. She wanted to be a part of your lives.’
‘She was,’ Matthew said.
Maria shot him an evil stare. ‘Shut up.’ She turned to Jenny. ‘She was very difficult. And that ridiculous Italian, it was so embarrassing.’
‘Is that what this is about?’ Jenny said. She felt the humidity around her, the crackle of her own angry lightning. ‘You resented her for finding someone after your dad died so you turned against her. You know how selfish that is? She needed her family and you were nowhere.’
‘You can’t speak to us like this,’ Maria said, looking down. ‘Get your foot out the way.’
‘She knew about you two.’
Maria scowled. ‘What about us?’
‘That you’re fucking each other.’
Matthew looked at the ground.
Maria’s eyes widened. ‘How dare you.’
‘She poisoned herself because she was heartbroken over you.’
‘What?’
‘She’s dead because of you.’
‘But she had Frankie.’
‘At least he loved her, which is more than I can say for you.’
‘He’s just after her money.’
Maria tried to close the door again and Jenny placed a hand on it. ‘He wasn’t after anything, she left everything to you.’
Matthew spoke up from the hall. ‘She did?’
‘Get off our property,’ Maria said, failing to hide a smile on her face. ‘Or I’ll call the police.’
‘You should be ashamed.’
‘Piss off,’ Maria said, getting the door almost closed. ‘We never want to see you again. And if you think the Skelfs are getting our mum’s funeral, you’ve got another thing coming.’
The door slammed and Jenny stood there, wishing the skies would open and soak her.