There were crumbs under Charlotte’s toaster. A splodge of something brown and unidentifiable in the vegetable drawer of the fridge. She had run clean out of fabric conditioner and there was dust – yes, really, dust – on the black domed top of her beaming Henry Hoover. Standards, you could say, were slipping – and you’d be right. You would also be right in saying, however, that Charlotte couldn’t have cared less.
She was happy, she had realized. She had remembered how it felt! A joyful little drumbeat in her blood, the giddy rush she experienced when a text or call came in from Ned, the way she woke up in the morning and felt glad. Glad! She had caught herself humming in the aisles of Waitrose the other day as she picked up various bits of food, adding a punnet of scarlet strawberries, some fancy grapefruit shower gel and a bunch of freesias just for the hell of it. Actually humming, out loud, in public!
It was as if she kept looking at herself and marvelling how far she’d come. There was no way she’d have been able to survive Rosa’s dinner parties this time last year, for example: she had been too unhappy to eat, too inward-looking to chat, and too exhausted to even consider putting on a nice dress and some make-up and doing her hair. And yet she’d managed exactly that each time, all of it, and had thoroughly enjoyed herself into the bargain – getting to know her neighbours Rosa, Georgie, Bea and of course Jo, now, with whom she’d had a proper long conversation at last, and who seemed the coolest, sparkliest person.
Even work seemed okay these days. One of the solicitors in her team, Jacqui, who had golden hair and cat-green eyes had admired Charlotte’s necklace one day over coffee, and they’d got chatting, and ended up having lunch together a few times since then. Another colleague, Shelley, had invited Charlotte out for her birthday drinks and it had been really fun, and she’d got to know lots of people in a shyly tipsy sort of way. There was talk of an office summer party and Charlotte found herself offering to help out . . . Charlotte was just saying yes to everything, in fact, these days. It was as if she were a daisy, opening her petals and offering them up to the sunshine. Hello, world. I’m back. I’m up for it.
‘You’re living again,’ her mum had said down the phone. She sounded a bit choked up actually; either that or her hay-fever was giving her grief. ‘That’s what it is – you’ve come out through the other side and you’re living again. Rescued by love!’
Rescued by love? Charlotte had rolled her eyes at such a melodramatic response. ‘I rescued myself,’ she pointed out. ‘And it’s not “love” anyway, yet, I barely know him. We’ve only had three dates and one coffee on the beach.’ Then, because she knew what an old romantic her mum was – and because it was true, moreover – she added, ‘But he does make me happy.’
‘He makes you happy,’ her mum repeated with great satisfaction. ‘Oh, darling, I’m so pleased. I’m so so pleased for you.’
‘Me too,’ Charlotte said. ‘And actually – if this doesn’t sound too mad – I make myself happy too nowadays. My life, the things in it, new friends . . . it’s all sort of come together in one big lovely package. I can’t explain it, but it’s like the black clouds have moved on. Not that I’m ever going to forget Kate of course –’
‘No, of course you won’t. But it’s learning to live alongside that grief, isn’t it? It’s not letting it shadow everything else in your world.’
‘Yes. That’s exactly it, Mum.’ There was a lump in her throat. Losing Kate had cast a shadow, she realized: a massive shadow over everything, so dark that she couldn’t see a way through it for a while. And although she was certain she’d always feel a tug inside at the sight of a new baby, probably for the rest of her life, that shadow had lifted, enabling daylight to come edging back in. Her days seemed fuller, she was sleeping better at night, she had stopped crying in the toilets at work for no reason. As for her cleaning schedule, that had all but been forgotten. Best of all, she hadn’t pored tearfully over her Kate shoebox for at least two weeks.
‘I really owe Margot one,’ she said to Ned, a few days later. For all her talk of having rescued herself and creeping out from under the shadow, she would never forget quite how instrumental Margot had been as a catalyst for change. Margot, who’d questioned her so beadily, who’d listened to her, who’d made her feel human again, who’d reminded her that there were good things in life still to be enjoyed.
‘Margot?’ Ned repeated, turning on the burglar alarm inside the café and shutting the door behind them. He closed up at six o’clock each day, just as she was finishing work, and she’d come down to meet him a couple of times, ships passing in the night, a snatched kiss and hello, and perhaps a quick walk along the prom with him, as he headed back to pick up the girls from his sister’s. Tonight she’d been invited back to have tea with them all – ‘Hope you like fish fingers and pasta pesto,’ he’d said, and she wasn’t entirely sure if he was joking or not. Perhaps she was making too much of it, being silly, but it felt like a big deal to be allowed into the family’s tea-time, admitted into the inner circle. She was flattered, excited and also racked with nerves. Was it shameless of her that she’d stuffed some jelly babies into her bag in a shallow attempt to win over those delicious little barefoot girls?
‘Yeah. Not just for introducing the two of us – for the second time, I mean,’ Charlotte added, a slight blush tingeing her cheeks. (She would probably never be able to think of their first fateful encounter without dying a little inside.) ‘But because she’s become . . . well, sort of a role model for me, I guess. Inspirational. I’ve never met a woman like her – who genuinely doesn’t give a damn what others think, who is so charming and naughty and mischievous.’
‘Who’s such a terrible old flirt . . .’ Ned said, pulling down the rattling metal shutters at the front of the café. ‘She’s not been in lately, actually. In fact . . .’ He stooped down to click the padlock in place. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen her all week. She is all right, isn’t she?’
The question slid under Charlotte’s skin where it sat uneasily for a few seconds. ‘Um . . . I think so,’ she replied but now the doubts were starting to prickle. Margot had seemed so much her old self at Rosa’s dinner party the week before that – to Charlotte’s shame – she’d all but put the older woman out of her mind, in her own new zeal for living. She was due to pop round on Friday for their weekly chat as usual but, all of a sudden, Charlotte got the strong feeling she should go there sooner. Nothing specific she could put her finger on, just a sensation of urgency. Hurry. Go.
‘Do you know, I might pop back and knock, actually,’ she blurted out. ‘Would you mind? I’m probably being silly but because she was so poorly before – and because she’s always telling me that she’s dying, too – I will just make sure.’ She hesitated, conscious of his sister Debbie waiting for them to arrive and collect the girls – Debbie, who she hadn’t met yet, but who was such an important part of her brother’s life that Charlotte definitely wanted to make a good impression. It wouldn’t be a great start, would it, if they rocked up later than expected, because she, Charlotte, got this fanciful notion in her head about her elderly neighbour. But now that the notion was in her head, there was no way she could ignore it.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Ned said, giving the shutter one last heave to make sure it was secure before putting the keys in his pocket.
By the time they’d reached the house, having huffed and puffed her way up the hill in haste, Charlotte was beginning to feel self-conscious for letting her instincts have their way, for allowing her emotions and panic to have steered them off course and away from Debbie’s house, thus delaying the fish finger teatime. It was going to be really embarrassing to knock on Margot’s door and see the surprised expression on her neighbour’s face when she answered it and saw them there. She would laugh, probably. She might even chide them for their interfering, over-anxious behaviour – ‘Ahh, you think I am dying, hein? Not yet, my darling. Not today!’
Still. They were here now, right at the top of the house, they might as well just double check. ‘Margot?’ Charlotte called, knocking on the door. ‘It’s me. Are you there?’
To her surprise, the door slid noiselessly open. Her neighbour must have left it on the latch. ‘Margot?’ Charlotte called again, stepping inside. ‘It’s Charlotte. Are you okay?’
The flat was silent. ‘Maybe she’s gone out,’ Ned said, hanging back. But Charlotte’s heart was thumping. Something was wrong, she thought, walking down the hall. She just knew it: something was wrong.
‘Margot?’ Then she heard it: a faint answering whimper, and she was running, blood cold, into the living room, where – ‘Oh my God. Margot! Margot! What happened?’ – where her neighbour lay on the floor, face waxy, eyes almost closed, her hair a rat’s nest of silver-grey tangles. Charlotte knelt on the floor and took the other woman’s pulse – a feeble lagging beat as if her heart no longer had the energy for anything stronger.
‘Shit,’ cried Ned, bursting into the room a second behind her. He pulled out his phone. ‘I’ll call an ambulance.’
‘No!’ The passion in Margot’s voice surprised them all, her eyes snapping wide open.
‘Margot, we must, you’re too poorly now,’ Charlotte said, still holding her hand. She reached down and stroked Margot’s hair off her face. Her beautiful hair, usually so elegantly styled and sprayed – it now lay in thin hanks, betraying its owner’s age and ill-health. The skin on her hands felt cold and papery, as if she’d been there some time. ‘Oh gosh, you poor thing, did you fall? How long have you been lying here?’
Margot clutched at Charlotte, her eyes cloudy but imploring. ‘Please. No. No ambulance,’ she gasped. ‘Please.’
‘But—’
‘Please.’
Charlotte gazed down at her helplessly, feeling conflicted. ‘Can we at least call for a nurse, someone to look after you?’ she asked, before remembering with a sudden bolt of clarity about Jo. ‘Ned. Will you run down and get Jo? Flat 2. She’s a nurse on a cancer ward, she’ll know what to do. Oh, Margot,’ she said, her voice a sob as he took off behind her. Please don’t go, she wanted to wail. Not yet! I’ve only just got to know you – and I love spending time with you. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been round sooner. I should have thought to check. I’ve been a bad friend, I’ve been so wrapped up in myself.’
Margot’s eyelids had closed, a tiny purple vein throbbing at one corner and her breath sighed out from her. For a terrible moment, Charlotte thought it was game over, that she’d just died, there and then, on her living-room floor, but then the older woman’s lips parted. ‘Good friend,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘I am happy. For you.’
Ned ran back into the room in the next minute, followed by Jo, who knelt alongside Charlotte and spoke kindly and briskly to Margot. ‘Hello, do you remember me? I’m Jo from downstairs, I’m a nurse at the hospital,’ she said. ‘We can have an ambulance here in two minutes, or I could drive you to the hospital myself if you’d rather,’ she offered, but Margot merely shook her head. ‘Are you sure you want to stay? Okay, well, let’s get you a bit more comfortable, in that case, and if you change your mind at any point, just tell me.’
Tears ran down Charlotte’s face as Jo took over, asking a series of questions before she and Ned carried Margot through to her bed. ‘It’s not looking good,’ she said quietly to Charlotte. ‘She’s very weak and tired, I think we’re approaching the end. Do you know of any relatives who might want to be here?’
‘She has two sons in France,’ Charlotte said, her voice catching. Oh goodness, this was all happening so quickly. Too quickly. She tried to pull herself together for Margot’s sake. What were the sons called? She knew they hadn’t always got on but they’d want to be with their mum at a time like this, wouldn’t they? Hadn’t they argued because they’d wanted her to die at home in France? She had visions of them arriving and hauling Margot away, tucked under one arm like a roll of carpet, and had to blink several times and swallow in order to think clearly. ‘I’ll try and get hold of them. She must have an address book or contact details somewhere.’
Ned was shifting from foot to foot, his expression uneasy. ‘I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to pick up the girls,’ he said. ‘I’d ask Deb to keep them a bit longer but I know she’s got her Pilates tonight – it’s the one evening of the week where I can’t be late. I hate to leave you like this but—’
‘It’s fine. I understand,’ Charlotte said helplessly. ‘I’m going to stay here. Sorry. Can we rearrange for another time?’
‘Of course! Don’t apologize,’ he said, with a long tight hug. ‘Definitely another time.’ He let go of her, his eyes concerned. ‘Will you let me know . . . how things are, here? Keep me posted?’
‘Sure,’ she said, glancing over as Jo rummaged in a cupboard for an extra blanket, then laid it over Margot’s body. ‘I’d better go. See you soon.’ They kissed and he gave her a last embrace before peeling himself away. As she heard his footsteps retreating down the stairs, she tried to dredge up some strength from inside. She had a feeling it was going to be a long night.
Margot died just after three o’clock the next morning, with Charlotte and Jo still by her side. The only other person Charlotte had ever seen die before had been her tiny baby daughter Kate in a sterile, brightly lit hospital room and it had been the most devastating, heartbreaking moment of her life. Margot’s death, by contrast, felt oddly peaceful, almost imperceptible, a quiet slipping away by candlelight, the night outside respectfully silent, as if in hushed homage. Charlotte and Jo had been either side of her, holding a hand each throughout. There had been moments of conversation where Margot became lucid and could reply to them, interspersed by long periods of peace where the only sound was the ticking of a bedside clock and the laborious breathing of an old, tired pair of lungs. Charlotte had brushed Margot’s hair for her, gently washed her face, rubbed a little hand-cream into her dry fingers. Small acts of kindness, each one saying, I’m here. I’m grateful for what you did. I’m really going to miss you.
Jo had telephoned the ward where she worked and spoken to the sister there, to tell her what was happening. According to their records, Margot had been suffering from blood cancer and, since early spring, had refused any more treatment. She’d last been seen by a doctor the Friday before, when it had been explained to her that she was now in the terminal stages of illness, and it was only a matter of time. In her notes it said that she’d been offered hospice care but had turned it down, preferring to stay at home. A tear trickled down Charlotte’s cheek on hearing this. Of course Margot had turned it down. ‘Die in a strange place with people I do not know? Non,’ Charlotte could imagine her saying in that defiant way of hers.
‘Friday was the day of Rosa’s supper club,’ she realized now, her throat tight with wanting to sob. ‘When she looked so well, when she seemed so . . . so Margot-ish again. I thought . . . I assumed . . .’
Jo reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘It often happens like that,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve seen it many times. Sometimes there’s actually a gladness to be told your time’s almost up, especially if you’ve been in a lot of acute pain for a long time, as Margot has been. There is a relief in knowing the agony is coming to an end.’ They both glanced over at the older woman lying there between them and Charlotte could hardly bear the welling sadness she felt, thinking of Margot putting on her lipstick each day, heroically covering up her pain. The strength of character that must have taken, the determination to face down her illness and go on alone . . . it was extraordinary.
‘There’s also this strange phenomenon where, soon before a person dies, they can often spend a day or two feeling quite well again,’ Jo went on. ‘It’s like the calm before the storm, one last lull. Perhaps that was Margot’s. Perhaps it was her last hurrah. And good for her.’
‘Good for her,’ Charlotte echoed. ‘Good for you, Margot.’ Tears pricked her eyes again as she thought for the hundredth time how glad she was that she’d followed her instincts, that some sixth sense had compelled her to check on her upstairs neighbour before it was too late. She still wasn’t sure exactly how long Margot had lain there before Charlotte and Ned had burst in. How awful it would have been if they’d never made it, if she had gone on to Ned’s house for tea with the girls. Margot might have died there, on her living-room floor, cold and alone. The thought was so awful it broke Charlotte’s heart just to imagine.
In death, as in life, Margot had been organized and meticulous. As soon as Charlotte had started searching for contact details of the two sons, she had found a list of instructions in shaky handwriting, including phone numbers for Michel and Henri, orders for how she’d like her funeral (a cremation at Woodvale, with the ashes to be scattered in Auray, the French town where she’d grown up), along with details of her solicitor and the name of her doctor. At the bottom of the paper, she had written ‘I enjoy my life’ and then a simple ‘MERCI’ in capital letters, and it was that, the fact that even when very very ill and at the end of her existence, lights dimming, Margot had wanted to stamp her claim on the world with that bold, proud last sentence, that made Charlotte love her even more. I enjoy my life. Yes, you did, she thought, wiping her eyes as she prepared to telephone France. You bloody well did that, Margot.
When the end finally came and Margot stopped breathing, Jo checked her pulse to be quite sure, then recorded the time of death, gently pulled down her eyelids and telephoned the doctor. Meanwhile, Charlotte burst into tears and lay her head on the older woman’s still chest like a child craving comfort. She thought of everything Margot had done for her – the confidence she’d given her, as well as the companionship, their weekly tea and pastries, her sense of adventure. Margot had reminded her of all the beautiful things in life worth celebrating, and she’d done so with such panache. Then she thought of Margot’s sons, grimly heading towards Brighton, now too late for one final goodbye with their mother. Perhaps they were on the ferry right at this moment, looking up at the stars as they journeyed across the dark water, sending up prayers that she would still be there when they arrived. I’m sorry, she said to them in her head. But she was not alone.
She remained lying with her arm across Margot until Jo came back to say that the doctor would be round first thing to issue the death certificate, and that she should really get some sleep now. They pulled a sheet respectfully over Margot’s inert cooling body, blew out the candles with soft smoky puffs, and then made their way back through the flat. ‘Goodbye,’ Charlotte said under her breath, lingering in the doorway. ‘Goodbye, Margot. Sleep well.’