I’ve taken myself in hand, convinced that if my mind can make me manifest bad symptoms, then by definition, it can make me manifest good ones, too. I’m ignoring the nausea in the hope it will eventually get the hint, pack its bags, and move on.
For the first time in weeks, I’ve put on full makeup and blow-dried my hair so that it actually looks decent. I’m wearing a dress I’d saved for best because that whole notion has gone out the window. I’ve put on heels, a spritz of perfume, and most symbolically of all, on my way out I throw away my calendar. I don’t need to see that miserable reminder ever again. It’s put me off Constable and Turner and Gainsborough, but there are plenty more where they came from. Harry’s taught me that. And now I’m on my way to see Isabelle to tell her the news.
I haven’t warned her I’m coming. I know she doesn’t like people dropping in, but this is not any old casual visit. If I warn her, she’ll only work on me until she’s dragged it out of me over the phone. And I want to see her face .
As soon as Olivia and Dan left, I replied to Harry’s anxious texts (I just love it that he’s anxious!). I told him that I’d forgotten to put my phone on. I apologized saying that all is well, which is nicely euphemistic if you think about it. He said he wants to take me out this weekend, but I’d rather stay home. Better to tell him the news in the privacy of my own sitting room, then we can celebrate freely.
I’m seeing Dr. Mackenzie tomorrow. I have a four o’clock appointment to get the results of my blood test. There was no sense of urgency in the receptionist’s voice, which I take as a good sign.
The Uber draws up outside my sister’s house. My mental attitude is in full positive throttle but, annoyingly, I haven’t quite convinced my body. I guess the iron tablets will take a few days before they kick in.
Isabelle’s doorbell responds loudly to my touch. My heart is thumping in my head, in my stomach, in my legs. I want to keep a poker face but my excitement won’t let me.
Martin opens the door. His expression, understandably, is one of bewilderment.
“Surprise!” My mouth has formed a rictus grin. I probably look most odd. Get a grip. Get a grip.
“Certainly is,” he says. “Um, do you want to come in?”
“Well, that would be nice,” I say, sensing resistance. “Is it a bad time? Am I disturbing you?”
“No, no, come in,” he says.
The girls shout, “Who is it, Dad?”
“It’s Aunt Jennifer,” he says.
They charge out of the kitchen and come rushing toward me. I feel like I’m about to be rugby tackled only to be given the sweetest double hug.
Cecily peers at me strangely, as if she’s amazed this is what I can look like. “You look lovely,” she says.
Sophia grabs my hand and swings my arm back and forth. “Mummy looked lovely, too. Did you want to come and see us first, then?”
“Of course I did.” I ruffle the top her head. “Where is Mummy?” I turn to Martin and then it registers. My thoughts scramble into shape. I can tell a cover-up is in order. “Am I not meant to be meeting her here?” I ask.
“No,” says Martin. “She said she was meeting you in town somewhere. A halfway house.” His voice sounds tight and distrustful. I need to play this really well.
“Oh my memory!” I say. “It’s just hopeless. I could have sworn I was meeting her here.” I feel as though I’ve popped out of a cake naked and found myself at the wrong party.
“You’re not well, Jennifer. It’s understandable. Let me sort you a cab. I guess you’d better call her. She must wonder where you are.” He still looks unconvinced as he grabs the telephone from its cradle in the hallway. He feels in his shirt pocket then taps the top of his head and replaces the phone. “One of you two fetch me my glasses, please, off the kitchen table.” Both girls rush into the kitchen, Cecily elbowing Sophia out the way.
“Don’t be mean, Cecily,” she yells.
“Behave the two of you, please!” says Martin. “It’s a pair of glasses not a medal.”
I make out like I’m phoning Isabelle. “She’s not answering,” I say, knowing I’m not good enough to pretend to have a conversation with her. “I’ll just get an Uber and text her from the car.”
“You’ll never get an Uber here. I’ll call you a cab. Where are my glasses, girls?”
“It’s fine,” I say. “My car’s probably still quite near. He can come back. Don’t worry, Martin.” I don’t want to have to tell him where I’m meant to be meeting her. Who knows what Isabelle might have said?
Cecily jumps back into the hall in front of Martin, wearing a winner’s smile, and hands him a pair of half-moon glasses, which he wraps around his ears. “Please allow me to book you a cab. You’ve come all this way, it’s the least I can do. Now where are the two of you meant to be meeting? She did tell me but I—”
“Oh, look!” I yell too loudly. “My Uber’s coming. He’ll be here in . . . er, one minute.” I quickly hold up my phone screen then retract it. “He’s nearing the top of your drive. I’ll text Isabelle to let her know I’m on my way.”
The girls stare at me, fascinated. Martin rolls his eyes, replacing the phone. He’s agitated, shifting listlessly the way people do when they can’t quite pinpoint what’s bothering them. He takes off his glasses and slips them into his shirt pocket. “Fine,” he says. “Anyway, it’s good to see you—even unexpectedly. Tell my wife not to get too drunk or to be home late.”
“I will!”
He twitches a smile. “You look well,” he says. “Surprisingly well.”
“Thank you.”
“Looking like that, I can’t imagine you get much sympathy.”
“I’m not looking for sympathy, Martin.”
“No. No. Not your style.”
I kiss the girls and give Martin an awkward peck on the cheek. He stands there stiff as a board.
I run down the drive, cursing my high heels. I’ll never get an Uber. Martin was right. This is not their terrain. I’ll have to walk to the station and pick up a local cab. I text Isabelle, cursing her, too. I know exactly what she’s up to.
She doesn’t reply.
There’s a line of cabs outside the station with a small queue of commuters waiting. I’m freezing. I hadn’t planned on this. Eventually I get to the front.
“Hampstead?”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Please, I’m desperate. Gospel Oak end.”
“Go on then. You’ve caught me in a good mood. Jump in.”
My mind is whirring the entire journey home. I move between anger and panic. I need to talk to Isabelle. I need to warn her even though she deserves to be found out. But I don’t want her to be. I love and care for her too much. God, I’m furious. How could she do this to me? Put me in this predicament. But then, why would she ever expect me to turn up at her home unannounced?
I call several times. I text her. She’s not responding to anything. I leave a voice mail, another text, telling her to call me no matter when. We need to coordinate our stories. I’m so worried about her I’ve actually forgotten the reason I went to see her in the first place.
I call again in desperation, expecting to hear her voice mail when I realize it’s her actual voice.
“Isabelle?”
“Jennifer? What’s up? Are you okay?” she slurs. Drunk.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”
“So I see,” she says. “Do you need me, darling sister?”
She’s beyond drunk. “No! You need me. You need to listen. Okay?”
“It’s my sister. I told you I had one!”
“I take it you’re with Barry?”
She sniggers. “Secret squirrel!” She must have put her hand over the phone because her voice sounds vaguely muffled, but I can still hear her. “I think she knows,” she says.
“I think everyone knows,” I say.
“What’s wrong?” she slurs.
“I went over to your house tonight.”
“You did WHAT? Why?”
That sobered her up! “It doesn’t matter why. Obviously Martin and the girls were expecting me to be with you.”
“Shit!”
“Yes. Shit! But I think I covered well. I told them I’d made a mistake and thought we were meant to be meeting at yours.”
“Did they buy it?”
“I think so.”
“Thanks,” she says. “You’re a gem. You’re going to say I should have told you.”
“Yes,” I say. “You should have. I asked you not to use me, Isabelle.”
“I guess that’s why I didn’t tell you. Are you angry? Don’t be angry with me, Jennifer. Life’s too short. Oops!”
“I’ll ignore that,” I say.
“Why did you go round? What on earth made you do that?”
“Does it matter? What matters is we sort out this mess. We need a story.”
“Go on then.”
“Right . . . Where shall we say we met?”
“Ham Yard Hotel.”
“Is that where you are now?”
“Yes, Miss Marple.”
“Do you know what the bar looks like or just the bedrooms?”
“I’m not answering that,” she says. “You’re being judgmental.”
“I’m not being judgmental. I’m being practical. We need to get our story straight in case your husband asks. Which I’m sure he will. So this is our story . . . we met in the bar.”
“Fine. I’ll check out the bar before I leave.”
“I was very late and you couldn’t get hold of me. Bad signal. You’d already ordered a bottle of wine—white obviously, a sauvignon—”
“Jesus, Jennifer. He’s not going to need details!”
“Maybe not but we need them. Detail will help us be authentic. And you had practically finished the bottle while you were waiting for me because I was so late. Which is why you’re DRUNK!”
“Okay,” she says. “I’m sober now, trust me!”
“You’re sure you’ll remember?”
“Jennifer, I’m not an imbecile.”
“Yes, you are, Isabelle.”
“Fine. I’m an imbecile. If I can work out how to use a phone, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Make sure you do.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I owe you one. Love you!”