Leo knew her secret. Leo knew about the bunch of cells that were dividing and multiplying inside her: not yet a person, perhaps never to be a person. And Rachael had no idea what he might do with the information. He was a loose cannon. She wished she could have sent him packing after the barbecue, along with the kids, but he’d shown no inclination to move on.
On Thursday morning Danny was in a strop because he couldn’t find the book he needed. He lay on the floor and kicked his legs and refused to fetch his trainers. ‘I told you, Mummy, I promised I would bring the frog book into class today. We’re growing them. It’s important.’
Matt intervened. ‘You can’t grow frogs, Danny boy,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Yes you can. We’ve got them in the tank. They start as tadpoles and then they grow legs and lose their tails and…’
‘But they’re the ones who do the growing, not you, don’t you see? Now let’s have a competition. Mummy and I will hunt for the book and you hunt for your trainers. Put them on properly and we’ll see who gets to the winning post first.’
‘Where’s the winning post?’
‘The front door. First person to touch the handle is the champion.’
Dan scrambled into action; Matt sat back, satisfied, and sipped his coffee. He might have grown up in a dysfunctional household but he had faith in his own behaviour. Rachael and Dan alike were oversensitive, affected by a change in temperature, atmosphere or setting that Matt wouldn’t even notice. She worried that she transmitted her neuroses and made Danny fretful, whereas when he was with his father, he was the strong and sturdy person he wanted to be. Inevitably, she was the parent who ran up and down stairs in a panic until she found the mislaid book. Danny clutched the door handle and crowed in triumph.
Leo missed all this. Leo did not rouse himself until long after she’d returned from the school run, when, at ten o’clock, he appeared and asked for a spare front door key. ‘I meant to get one off you yesterday.’ (Yesterday had been spent negotiating with the garage who’d rescued the Lotus and with Nick, the car’s owner.) ‘You don’t want to be waiting in for me.’
She was tempted to retort that no way would she do such a thing. Instead, she handed it over, suspecting this was another of his ruses. ‘The lock hasn’t been changed,’ she said. ‘In case you were thinking of making a copy.’ She regretted the sentence as soon as she spoke it.
The spare key was on a worn leather fob; it was probably the one he’d used himself. She watched uneasily as he examined it, lying in his palm. His eyes could twinkle in an avuncular way one minute and freeze into marble chips the next. Luckily this was his twinkling phase. ‘Oh, Raquel, why would I do that? This is your house now.’ He rummaged in the large satchel he carried with him, checking phone, laptop, wallet. He thrust the key into his trouser pocket and glanced at the wall clock.
‘It’s fast,’ Rachael said. ‘Five minutes.’
‘Ah.’ He helped himself to a banana, stripped its skin and took a large bite. When he’d finished chewing, he said: ‘The advantage of having a reputation for poor punctuality is that no one ever worries if you’re late.’
‘Are you meant to be somewhere?’
‘The Tate. But don’t worry. I’ll get a cab.’
She hoped he’d be out a long while. She hoped he’d meet an old friend or colleague (not Nick, obviously) who’d invite him for a meal and then, with luck, to spend the night. What she needed, to get through the next twenty-four hours, was a period of respite. She needed to order her thoughts, to prepare what she might say to the counsellor. Then, perhaps, her dilemma could be resolved.
She should not be scared of having children. Matt had persuaded her tenderly there was nothing to be frightened of. Dan’s birth had been difficult, true, but she had coped well and the second time around was sure to be easier. But the problem wasn’t just the process of giving birth: Dan’s entire babyhood had terrified her. Now of course she loved him to bits, a love so overwhelming it submerged her. Where was the Rachael who’d been thrilled to leave the dull small-town life of her parents and move to a city as exciting and edgy as Liverpool? What had happened to her ambition and her joie de vivre?
She was still ambitious, of course, but the juggling was hard and another baby would make it harder. And she couldn’t say any of this to Matt because there, ahead of her, was the example of Julia: a person of supreme competence, a person who could surmount all the obstacles life threw at her. No one had ever made a comparison – Rachael knew these misgivings were in her own head – but none of her achievements as cook, wife, mother could entirely banish her childhood sense of inadequacy.
It was tricky enough to talk to Matt anyway, aware of how much he wanted to have another child and of each missed opportunity to tell him the truth. Conception had happened far too quickly and she still felt the shock of disbelief. It was blindingly obvious the timing was wrong: they had only just moved, the house needed work, Dan needed to settle in his new school. Also, she was still establishing the catering business and would struggle to keep up momentum. That was why the purchase of the Rangemaster, though it might have seemed spontaneous – even wilful – was so significant.
She couldn’t think of a convincing excuse to cancel her regular session with Emma at the swimming pool and gym, but she powered through the water and pounded on the treadmill so their conversation was limited by gasps and grunts. She recounted the trip in the Lotus and the broken exhaust as a funny story, but she didn’t mention the buying spree and she cut short lunch on a pretext.
She arrived home to find Leo sprawling on the sitting room sofa and glowering at a half bottle of whisky on the coffee table. His legs were stretched out at such an angle it was almost impossible not to fall over them. The sofa faced the fireplace and above it was a large patch of wallpaper paler than the rest. A shadow line marked where his painting, Conflagration 2, had once hung. It was a curious juxtaposition: the presence of the man and the absence of the work. Although Rachael was responsible for its removal, she couldn’t help wondering how it might feel to him, the sense of being erased bit by bit.
‘You weren’t out long,’ she said.
He spoke with his eyes shut. ‘Long enough.’
‘I’d rather Danny didn’t see you drinking. Spirits, I mean, at this time of day.’
‘Is he here?’
‘No, not yet. But he’ll be home later.’
He grabbed the neck of the bottle. ‘I’ll have finished it by then.’
‘Please, Leo.’
With his free hand he reached for her wrist and pulled her down beside him. ‘Please what?’
‘Please don’t.’
‘You think I’m out of control?’
‘No… I just don’t know what you want, why you came, what you’re doing here.’
‘That makes two of us,’ he said. But he relaxed his grip.
She withdrew her wrist and rubbed at the bone. Her leg was trembling; she couldn’t stop it. They both watched her thigh jiggling up and down until he put his hand upon it and leaned towards her. She could smell the whisky on his breath. Even before this visit, she had been a little fearful of him. You never knew where you stood: whether he was joking or serious, whether he was going to offer a compliment or a put-down, whether his laughter might blast into rage. Her own family life had been quiet – Leo would probably say buttoned up – appearances had been important; deviation suppressed.
‘It’s all gone belly-up,’ he said.
‘The meeting didn’t go well?’
‘You could say that.’
‘What happened?’
He seemed grateful for the question, for the chance to rant. ‘There’d been talk of a group show from the early days of the Liverpool scene – Henri and Cockrill and so on – through my generation and beyond, but it turns out they were just stringing me along. The Walker and the Bluecoat are much better at arranging that kind of thing. Tate’s too fucking precious but you can get the spin-off you see. Posters. Calendars. Fucking fridge magnets if you’re lucky. Forget prestige. Money, Raquel, that’s what it’s about. As a subject it’s crass and boring as hell. But the stuff’s undeniably useful.’
‘I didn’t realise you were short of money.’
‘That depends on whether I’ve had a good day at the bookies’. Sadly, art does not make the artist rich – though hangers-on are another matter. And I’m talking about art per se, rather than the art of publicity. You’re a clever girl. I’m sure you recognise the difference.’
She was finding it hard to relate his present black mood to the person who had sauntered out that morning. Yet – unaccountably, given his language, drinking and general demeanour – she felt sorry for him. Perhaps it was because he had recognised her as a fellow creative. A person who knew what it was like to make something and get little recompense, to balance on a see-saw of approval/disapproval, to hanker after appreciation, to be cast down by disappointment.
‘Mightn’t they change their minds?’
He leaned back and gazed at the ceiling. ‘Well it’s still floating around as an idea. The air is full of them, floating fucking ideas. Sponsorship’s the key. Sponsorship or lack of it is the hurdle we come a cropper on. Tripped up. Fucked up.’ Suddenly he swivelled towards her. ‘In addition, it doesn’t help to discover some of one’s best work has been dumped at the back of a garage, halfway to the tip.’
She said guiltily, ‘They’re not dumped. We’re waiting for Julia to collect them.’
‘Really? Julia? Another one who’s avoiding me like the plague.’
She probably has her reasons, thought Rachael. ‘Couldn’t you go back to France? Aren’t you supposed to be giving workshops all summer?’
‘Yes. Well. If there are any takers. They haven’t exactly been inundated with bookings.’ Her attention was reviving him, drawing him out of his slump. ‘Why don’t you fetch yourself a glass, Raquel? Join me. Let yourself go.’
Was he remembering the effect vodka had on her? She’d only drunk it out of defiance. She would have liked to recapture some of Tuesday’s recklessness, but she knew it was a bad idea. ‘No, I can’t.’
‘It isn’t so hard if you try.’
‘I really shouldn’t.’
‘Such a good influence,’ he murmured and she didn’t know if he was being sarcastic.
‘So what’s your antidote?’
‘To?’
‘What shall we call it? Frustration? Bitterness? That feeling of worthlessness? The pain of self-doubt?’
She hadn’t expected Leo to be tarnished with self-doubt. She began to ease away from him. This was becoming too confessional. Where would it lead? She didn’t want to find herself trying to explain her hang-ups and begging him not to tell Matt. ‘I generally go off and make something.’
‘Something to eat, you mean? Like what?’
‘Oh… it depends.’
‘Why is it,’ he mused, ‘that one imagines a cook to be plump and mumsy? Or did they just break the mould with you?’
‘Do you want me to prove it?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘That food gives more succour than drink.’
‘Throwing down the gauntlet, are you?’
‘If you like.’
‘Fine then,’ said Leo tipping more whisky into his glass. ‘I accept.’
This was her chance to escape, to retreat to her familiar lair with its herbs and spices and potions. She would make something rich and sticky like Chelsea buns. She could lose her anxieties in kneading and folding the dough, melting the butter, letting the sugar bubble into a thick glossy syrup. There was nothing more comforting, more absorbing, to her than the slow wholesome process of baking. She could picture Matt’s appreciative smile, Danny licking his fingers, the sunny illusion of togetherness.
She covered the Chelsea bun mixture with cling film and carried it upstairs to the warmth of the airing cupboard. From the sitting room she could hear the racing commentary and possibly a snore. Might Leo be sleeping? She wasn’t going to check. She was satisfied with the way she had dealt with him – not so different from the way Matt had dealt with Dan at breakfast – but you could never tell what would happen next and she was wary of the unpredictable. So she picked up her phone and scrolled to Bel’s number.
The call rang loudly into the void but no answer came, which puzzled her. In an earlier conversation Bel had rattled on about her ‘mental’ journey with ‘two crazy guys’. (Since she had an unerring eye for the flaky and peculiar there was nothing new in this.) Could she be out gallivanting with her new companions? What did people get up to on the western edge of the Atlantic? Rachael wouldn’t dwell on it; she’d keep herself busy. She measured sugar and water and melted them together at the stove, stirring the syrup with a wooden spoon.
Then impatience got the better of her. She wiped her fingers on a damp cloth and prodded Bel’s number again, speaking slowly and clearly to the voicemail. ‘Hi, this is Rachael. Look, wherever you are, Bel, whatever you’re doing, you need to get in touch. Leo’s still here – maybe he’s really keen to see you, who knows? I don’t have a clue! So can you please ring him and find out what this is about.’ She paused and added, ‘Though I should leave it a couple of hours if I were you. He’s a bit sulky at the moment—’ A shuffle alerted her; quickly she ended the message. ‘Bye now.’
She turned to see Leo leaning against the doorjamb. He didn’t comment on the evidence of her industry, the bags of flour and sugar and currants. ‘Find out what this is about?’ he said.
‘I was trying to get hold of Bel. Isn’t she the reason you came here? Apart from the gallery stuff…’
‘Ah, yes. My poor little fledgling pushed out of the nest.’
‘Some flatmate,’ muttered Rachael, returning to the stove.
‘Not the flat,’ said Leo. ‘The family home.’ He spread his arms in an expressive arc. ‘All this.’
‘No one’s pushed her out,’ said Rachael. ‘She owns about a third of it.’
He looked startled, but she ignored him because her syrup was producing hot spitting noises, turning too fast to caramel, to toffee, to ruin. She seized the pan and plunged it into the sink. Things went wrong all the time in the kitchen; she was used to it. But current events were preying on her, making her more vulnerable to setbacks. She could feel tears of frustration rising.
Leo said, leaving a distinct break between each word, ‘Julia. Gave. This. House. To. Matt.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. As it happens, she gave it to all of us.’
‘All of you?’
‘Yes. In exchange for our place. We had to transfer the mortgage – you can’t imagine how complicated it was – but we thought it would be worth it for Danny.’
‘So Bel has part-ownership?’
‘Yes.’
‘Julia didn’t tell me,’ he said.
Rachael felt something snap. ‘Why the hell should she? It’s nothing to do with you any more.’ Then contrition made the tears spill over. They were trickling down her cheeks. She was clinging to the edge of the sink; water was still running from the tap.
Leo was at her side with a piece of paper towel he’d ripped off the roll. He dabbed at her damp face. ‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘Jousting at windmills. Tell me, Raquel, is it simple paranoia do you think? Paranoia that a mighty art institution can’t be arsed with me? That my ex-wife might be penalising her daughter for being my offspring? My bloody seed and not his.’
‘But she hasn’t penalised her.’
‘No. As it turns out.’
She knew her voice was muffled as he continued to mop away her tears. ‘Is that what you thought? That she was deliberately favouring Matt and me? I can’t believe it. Nobody would be that vindictive.’
‘I’m sure Julia took a great delight in letting me think the worst. But it doesn’t matter. It’s a misunderstanding I’ll be happy to forget.’
‘So that’s why you came here? You were after revenge?’
‘I came because there was sod-all going on in France and Dorothy Culshaw was doing my head in. I was planning to give my support to Bel, but clever Julia pulled a fast one on me.’
‘That’s not how it happened.’
‘No?’
‘No! Why do I feel like we’re caught in the middle of something we don’t understand between the two of you?’
‘Because we’re a crotchety old couple with too much history? You shouldn’t berate yourself, Raquel. It’s so different from my day, the atmosphere in this house. You’re spreading comfort and joy.’ He smoothed her hair from her brow and then stooped to inhale it. ‘Oh my God, don’t you smell wonderful!’
The compliment was reassuring. She often worried that she’d not quite eradicated the taint of raw garlic, onion or shellfish. Once, coming home from a function where she’d been complimented on her butterfly prawns and parcels of sushi, she’d crept up behind Matt and put her hands over his eyes. He had seized her wrist and kissed her palm. ‘I’d recognise that fishy smell anywhere,’ he said. She’d pulled away from him, furious.
‘What does it remind me of?’ Leo went on. ‘Toffee perhaps? A taste of childhood. Or those big glass jars in the corner shop window, full of boiled sweets.’
She said ruefully, ‘You’ve no idea how bitter caramel gets when it burns. I cocked it up so I’m going to have to make it all over again.’
‘Is that why you’re crying?’
‘Of course not….’
He was stroking her hair now, letting it slide through his fingers. ‘It’s getting to you, isn’t it, this situation you’re in?’
The tears came faster. The last thing she had wanted was his sympathy; nothing was more likely to make a person succumb.
Leo said, ‘In general, artists aren’t judgemental you know. Too concerned with their own vision to give a fuck about other people’s. But you shouldn’t go through it alone. Let me drive you to the clinic tomorrow.’
‘Drive me?’
‘It will have to be in your car. But I won’t take risks. Don’t want to make things any more fraught for you.’
She mumbled, ‘It’s only a consultation.’
‘Whatever. I’ll be your immoral support.’ His arm tightened around her and it was with a wave of relief that she gave in and rested her head on his shoulder.
As he steered her away from the sink, she thought she glimpsed a face peering through the window. She hesitated, but Leo took her hand, drawing her towards the door, and she dismissed the fleeting impression as fantasy.