Bel noticed the arrival of spring on her daily walks as pale green began to shadow the winter branches, like mist, and vibrant butter-yellow clumps of daffodils and frothy pink camellias decorated the paths in Kensington Gardens. The air took on a kinder note. She’d sent out twenty email-CVs and been for two more interviews: a front-of-house in a busy Notting Hill wine bar with a huge garden, and an assistant-manager post in a gastro-pub chain in Bayswater. In both places she’d been treated kindly, but she felt – rightly or wrongly – it was the polite, pitying sort of kindness. The sort that silently queried, Why on earth would we employ someone of her age here? The problem, she knew, was finding somewhere to work within reasonable range of the flat where she wasn’t up against a million eager, cheap millennials and Zoomers. It was not proving easy to get a job at managerial level – paying well enough – even though hospitality was crying out for staff.
Today, a beautiful spring morning, was her fifty-eighth birthday. Up and dressed early, she wore jeans and a raspberry lambswool polo-neck Louis had given her for her birthday a few years back. She washed her face, but put on no make-up. Her skin was creamy – the sort that tans golden in the sun – and relatively unlined for her age, the eyelashes and brows above her violet eyes a pale corn colour, matching her thick, wavy hair, which was now past her shoulders and contained in a ponytail most days. There was only the odd strand of grey, which had annoyed Louis, whose dark hair was rapidly losing its colour. ‘I’m younger than you,’ he’d often teased.
Rubbing moisturizer into her cheeks, she asked herself, Has Louis remembered? Her mind flew back to her birthday last year, when he’d made her a beautiful Sachertorte, her name piped across the top. He wasn’t much of a pastry chef and he’d been particularly pleased with himself at the success of the cake. Does he miss me? He’d claimed they hadn’t been ‘particularly happy for a long while’ in the infamous letter, but that wasn’t what Bel remembered. She would have been the first to admit that they’d been busy and hadn’t had a great deal of leisure time for each other. And Louis had drunk too much during the pandemic, with nothing to occupy himself. But she felt they’d been good together, supported and made each other laugh, hadn’t they?
As she pulled a brush through her long hair, she tortured herself with the image of Louis waking in his new home in the south-west of France … Wasn’t it Carcassonne Trinny said she came from? Terracotta tiles on the floor, a wrought-iron bed with embroidered white cotton sheets, blue-painted wooden shutters open at the window, allowing in the warm Mediterranean sun … his fingers running up Trinny’s luscious young thigh. Bel could see the flame in his dark eyes as he kissed her full lips, remembered the way he would hold his breath when he was about to come. It was like a porn movie on a continuous loop, from which she was unable to drag her eyes.
Every inch of herself, in that moment, wanted none of this to have happened. She longed just to be back in Walthamstow, in their sparsely furnished flat, the restaurant buzzing below, Louis manic and fired up with today’s menu ideas … things to do, people to talk to, the hours of the day flashing past until sleep overtook her. It had not been perfect, but it had been a full, engaged life, with a man she had truly loved. She frowned at herself in the bathroom mirror, then forced a grin, which started wan, but became genuine after a second as her tragic expression made her laugh.
Tossing her ponytail and straightening her jumper, she squared her shoulders determinedly: she had her meeting with Flo to look forward to this morning. Her bare feet were cold on the hallway tiles as she crept past her father’s bedroom towards the kitchen – she didn’t want to wake him and risk her good mood being ruined by his potentially bad one.
But as she drew level with Dennis’s door, it flew open. He wore his frayed plaid dressing gown open over a pair of grey joggers and a vest, his hair flopping around his sleepy face, upon which was a warm smile.
‘Thought I’d beat you to it and get some celebratory breakfast going,’ he said. ‘But you’re up already.’ Patting her shoulder, he pecked her lightly on the cheek. ‘Happy birthday, Bella.’
Bel found she was chuffed. Her father had always been a bit haphazard when it came to birthdays, seldom managing a card, mostly just a late present, not wrapped, which would appear at some random time in a supermarket bag, almost as an afterthought. And this year there was hardly much to celebrate, from her point of view. But now he linked his arm in hers and pulled her towards the kitchen.
‘Right, so I think it’s not the day for that muesli nonsense,’ he said, winking at her. ‘I’m doing my special scrambled eggs, OK?’
She laughed. ‘That’d be lovely, Dad.’
‘You sit down. I’ll sort it.’
Bel knew this meant a lot of bumbling about, faffing over how many eggs, finding the right bowl in which to beat them and his favourite pan, cursing the bread knife as he hacked from the loaf huge slabs that wouldn’t fit in the toaster. But neither of them was in a hurry, and it was nice to be treated for a change.
‘Shall I do the coffee?’ she suggested, making to rise from her chair.
Dennis, in the process of beating the eggs, wagged a dripping fork at her. ‘Nope, sit. I’m on it – as the youth of today would say.’
It was, as she’d predicted, a long old process, entailing a fair bit of huffing and puffing and even more profanities. But in between, her father whistled under his breath, and shot her the occasional smile that seemed oddly mischievous, as if he had some surprise up his sleeve.
‘That was delicious,’ she said, when they’d eaten the eggs – stirred to her father’s exacting standards: no milk – blasphemy – touch of Tabasco, salt and pepper, plenty of butter, soft but cooked through.
Dennis, across the table, beamed. ‘That’s not your only treat, girl.’
Bel raised an enquiring eyebrow, a little taken aback by her father’s current mood of indulgence towards her – it made her uneasy, and she waited for the moment, so familiar from the past, that might cause his humour to tip.
‘Stay there,’ he said, wiping his chin – which sported a fuzz of white bristles that morning – and getting to his feet.
A minute later he was back, a square box under one arm. It was old, about the size of two egg boxes laid side by side, and covered with faded burgundy leather, worn and scuffed around the tarnished metal lock. Bel recognized it immediately.
Dennis, sweeping the butter dish and her coffee cup to the side with one hand, placed the box carefully in front of her. ‘For you.’
‘Mum’s,’ Bel whispered.
He sat down close to her. ‘Go on,’ he urged, as she slowly ran her fingers over the surface of the box. ‘Open it.’
The inside was lined with padded, now yellowing, cream satin, small, billowed cushions fitting each section and protecting the jewellery inside. Lifting a cushion, Bel pulled out a heavy gold-link bracelet and held it in her palm. The gold was cold, but the smoothness between her fingers brought her straight back to her mother’s side. Agnes had always worn it, even when she was really sick. In those final weeks it had hung loosely on her wrist, which had shrunk to the size of a child’s. Bel felt her heart contract as her father’s hand brushed her own.
‘I know it’s been a long time. Agnes left it all to you in her will, of course – it’s not like I was going to be wearing her jewellery.’ He gave a sad laugh. ‘I just couldn’t part with it at first. And then I forgot I still had it. I’ve kept her wedding ring – I hope you don’t mind? The rest is yours.’
Bel could only nod and smile her gratitude. Words wouldn’t come. Never a materialistic person, and frozen out at the time by her father’s intense grief – as if he were the only person affected – she had been reluctant even to mention her mother’s name in the months after she had died. She wouldn’t have dared either to ask her father about her possessions. Instead she’d swallowed her heartbreak as best she could and concentrated on pursuing her passion for skiing and the Alps, for dear Bruno. But it surprised her now that the jewellery appeared untouched, just as her mother had left it, all these decades later, that her father still cherished the ring her mother had worn. Because she couldn’t remember witnessing, when Agnes was alive, the overwhelming love he always claimed after her death.
What Bel recalled, growing up, was an uncomfortable feeling that her father thought her mother a bit simple and regularly quite irritating. There was never any sign of respect for her opinions or desires. As a child, Bel didn’t question it. They were her parents. It was her norm. Dennis treated Bel much the same, anyway. Following some slight or show of temper, her mother would say, ‘It’s just his manner. He doesn’t mean anything by it.’ Closing the box, Bel felt her mouth twitch as she realized that she, too, said the same thing to herself whenever her father was snippy: He doesn’t mean it.
‘What are you smiling about?’ Dennis queried.
‘Oh, nothing.’ She thought quickly, feeling his eyes on her, suspicious, suddenly. ‘Just remembering Mum, and how I always knew where she was in the flat because I could hear the bracelet jangling.’
Dennis sat back, mollified, and clearly satisfied that his surprise had hit the mark. ‘She would approve, you know, our beloved daughter back home with me like this. She always said family was the most important thing.’ Bel’s tough old dad looked almost tearful.
Bel winced. She wasn’t sure how to react to this emotional version of her father, whose cynical nature seemed to allow very little to touch his heart. Confused, it was a moment before she registered what he had said.
‘I won’t stay for ever, Dad, I promise,’ she said, making a joke of it. ‘I’ll be out of your hair soon and you won’t have to put up with your grumpy daughter ruining your days.’
She expected a caustic comment in return, but her father just looked baffled. ‘Where would you go?’ he asked, plaintively.
‘Oh, I don’t know. It won’t be yet. I’m just saying, you don’t have to put up with me for ever.’ She was trying for jaunty but knew she sounded slightly desperate.
Dennis’s face clouded. ‘Seems daft, you paying exorbitant rent on a squalid place in the boondocks – which is all you’ll be able to afford on a waitress’s meagre salary, I imagine. What’s wrong with living here?’ He seemed perturbed. ‘Listen, I’m not gagging for the money you owe me. You being you, I know I’ll get it back eventually. And I’m getting used to you and your moods,’ he added, with a wink.
Bel sighed inwardly at the dismal picture he was painting of her future employment prospects. ‘Nothing’s wrong with it, Dad,’ she said. ‘I just value my independence, that’s all.’ She managed a grin she hoped was a bit mischievous. ‘You taught me that, remember? I’m sure you wouldn’t approve of me sponging off you for the rest of my life.’
Dennis did not respond to the grin. Instead he cocked an eyebrow. ‘Independence is all very fine, but how are you going to pay for it, eh?’ He shook an admonishing finger at her as if she were soft in the head. ‘I’d take advantage of me and my millions while you can, girl. And make sure I last as long as possible. I’m leaving everything to Glasgow City Mission when I go.’
Glasgow City Mission. Bel didn’t know whether to take him seriously or not. She was familiar with the charity, which her father always cited as having helped the Carnegies out of a deep hole when his father couldn’t work because of mental-health problems. ‘It’s a worthy cause,’ she said honestly. She didn’t want to think of him dead, anyway.
Dennis gave her a curious look. ‘Shocked you, have I? I thought you knew.’
‘You can leave your money to whoever you like, Dad.’
‘Ah, but you’d rather I left it to you, no?’ He grinned slyly.
Ignoring his jibe, she rose, picking up the box. ‘Listen, thanks for Mum’s jewellery. It means a lot.’
‘You’ll look after it? I don’t want some eejit getting his hands on it.’
She stopped and gave him a quizzical look. ‘What “eejit” is that, Dad?’
Dennis tapped the side of his nose. ‘The one you were talking to as you paced round the square the other day?’ He chuckled triumphantly. ‘I may be old but I’m not stupid. I saw your face … Mouna, my arse.’
Bel, weary and once again out-manoeuvred, could find no retort. She didn’t even bother to deny it. ‘I’m off to the park. I’ll pick up some food on the way home.’
Her father looked like the cat who’d got the cream as he waved her off with a dismissive flick of his hand and turned to pick up the newspaper.