He searched for the number on the doors in the north London street, checking his phone to make sure he’d got the details right. The weeks since Lily had left had been a numb sort of hell for Freddy. Sleepwalking through his life – the endless phone calls and emails, drinks and dinners and parties, schmoozing and boozing and negotiating . . . the food-truck launch itself – he had found his only real focus, every minute of every day, was the shocking thing he’d done to Lily. What he’d done and the uncontrollable rage he’d felt as he did it. He had completely lost sight of who he was.
I’m a survivor, he told himself daily. I don’t need help. I’ll get through this by myself. I always have. But one windy, wet Sunday morning, in the middle of October, he had finally understood that he might not. The launch was over – a niche success. Max was delighted. There was no work to focus on, no party to go to, no emails that couldn’t wait till the morning. No Lily. He had gone out to get a paper from the corner shop – Mr Patel, who had taken to calling him ‘dear’, reminded him of Arthur March. But as he was walking back along the pavement in the rain, he saw his father coming towards him. Not his father as he had last seen him in Malta, but his father when he was still bulked with muscle and rage.
Staring in horror at the approaching figure, Freddy felt suddenly dizzy, his heart racing nineteen to the dozen. He realized he was sweating and wiped his clammy, shaking hands on his jeans. He heard his paper drop, felt his breath wheezing in his chest. A young woman in jogging pants and a pink hoodie touched his arm, said something he didn’t understand. He pushed her away. He was sure he was having a heart attack, dying, right there in the street.
A second later the man – who was not, of course, Vinnie Slater – moved past him, casting only a cursory glance at Freddy, now bent over the gutter and retching. But with a familiar sort of inevitability, which didn’t even feel painful in the moment, Freddy, as he straightened up, saw he had wet himself.
‘It sounds like a panic attack,’ the nurse on the NHS helpline had suggested later, her tone sympathetic. ‘Have you been particularly stressed lately?’
And Freddy, with a sudden flash of understanding, saw he had been unbearably stressed his entire life.
The door, when he found it, seemed an improbable address for a respected psychotherapist. Although it was a shiny maroon with a stylish pewter knocker in the shape of a dolphin, it was sandwiched between a betting shop – the final irony – and a sandwich bar, which had two metal chairs and a table on the pavement outside. But he rang the bell anyway. A moment later a male voice answered, ‘Top floor, be careful on the stairs.’
Freddy saw what the voice meant. The stairs were steep and winding, but carpeted in what looked like an expensive sisal runner, lit by a skylight on the landing above.
Already so nervous he thought he might puke, Freddy hesitated at the sound of the voice, on the brink of turning tail. He’d already cancelled one appointment.
Then a head poked over the banisters. It was that of a man about ten years older than Freddy, balding and lean, with very blue eyes in a tanned face. He looks, thought Freddy, more like a sailor than a therapist. But the man smiled as Freddy reached the top floor and held out his hand, offering a firm shake. The smile was both wise and kind, and Freddy took a deep breath. Maybe with this man, his instinct told him, I can be safe.
It was a sunny Saturday morning in early December, three months since Lily had said goodbye to Freddy, her head bloody, her heart broken. They had not spoken since. Lily was leaving the flat she now rented in Summertown – a pleasant two-bedroom ground-floor apartment, with a small, neat garden, in a pretty cul-de-sac. She was en route for the 500 bus that would take her to Oxford station.
She had stayed on Seth’s boat for a while after breaking up with her husband – almost five weeks – and it had been an intensely solitary time. She had turned in upon herself, stripped bare, for once, of the distracting turbulence that had recently been her life. But, aside from the odd stab of searing loneliness that made her want to cry out, she had found the time strangely peaceful.
Every morning, early, she would get out of bed, pull on a sweater and jeans and pad through to the sitting area, where she’d light the wood stove – she was becoming quite an expert. Then she would make herself a cup of coffee with Seth’s state-of-the-art machine and, clutching a blue tin mug full of the powerful brew Seth favoured, she’d sling the tartan blanket from the sofa around her shoulders and open the glass doors onto the deck.
It had been a beautiful autumn, and at that time of day the sun would be tipping the horizon, its rays piercing the pale layer of mist that often rose from the field beside the canal and hovered over the still water. All she was able to hear were the birds. It was so beautiful, so utterly peaceful, that it sometimes brought tears to Lily’s eyes. She would lean against the side of the narrowboat, her bare feet cold on the dewy decking, and sip the warm coffee, her heart slow, her breath calm, her mind enjoyably empty.
Then, three weeks after her arrival on the boat, an email from ‘freddymarch@hotmail.com’ had landed in her in-box. His message had been short, almost formal, but her heart had raced, nonetheless, when she saw it was from him.
Dearest Lily,
I am writing to let you know that I have given Helen and David’s address to the solicitors, Markham and Ryde, who are dealing with my father’s estate. (I don’t know if you’re still living there, but I’m sure they’ll forward it, if not.)
I have asked Bill Markham to transfer the money left to me in my father’s will to your account. It amounts to £109,632, and will go some way in repaying my debt to you.
It might not arrive for a few months – you know how long probate can take – but let me know when it does.
I hope you are doing okay. I struggle, but I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear I’ve finally been brave enough to get some help!
Much love to you, as always, Freddy xxx
It had taken Lily a moment to catch her breath, all the old emotions Freddy engendered gathering raw around her heart as she read his final line. She’d pushed them firmly away, concentrating on the practical content of his message. He could so easily have kept the money, gambled it away, she’d thought.
She’d known she was pleased, as Freddy suggested, that he was getting help. But she had been surprised to find she was not tempted to respond to the email, beyond thanking him for the money. The thought of hearing more about his personal life, of being sucked back into his chaos, of feeling too much for him again, had sent a piercing shaft of anxiety through her gut.
The money was hugely significant in her parlous financial state. Her heart had leaped at the sum. It meant she could borrow enough, until probate was finalized, for a deposit on a decent rental – from Seth, perhaps, or Prem. It was getting chilly on the boat as winter approached, and although the doctor had insisted she stay as long as she liked she knew she would relish a place on solid ground, with central heating and a loo that didn’t wobble and smell of bleach.
Today, as she waited for the train to arrive, Lily was nervous, but also excited. Not nervous because she was seeing the twins and Ted. Her relationship with her children had begun slowly to mend over the autumn. They were still careful with each other, and nobody referred much to the recent past, but Lily felt they were a family again. The anger on both sides had gradually dissipated now that Freddy was no longer in the picture.
As it had, indeed, between Lily and her sister. She had been to supper with Helen and David only last night. Kit was still AWOL, still an ongoing cause of distress. But since the summer and Kit’s most recent rejection, her sister and brother-in-law were finally on the same page about their son. David, reluctantly, had stopped taking Kit food, cleaning up after him, giving him keys, monitoring him. They both seemed to have resigned themselves – as much as would ever be possible – to the status quo.
No, Lily’s nerves this morning were of a very different nature.
*
‘Is this it?’ Sara grinned at her mother as they pushed open the door to a small gallery in a narrow lane off the Broad. The four of them seemed to take up a lot of room in the quiet space – Ted particularly, with his loud voice and relentless enthusiasm. Lily greeted the blonde girl, Zoë, who sat behind the desk in the corner.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked, casting an anxious glance around. On the right-hand wall were displayed fifteen of Lily’s colourful pen-and-ink portraits. Blues and pinks and yellows, pale green and dark green, blacks and greys, the lines wove through the small, intricate drawings, the faces startlingly alive and full of character.
Zoë grinned, pointing to the pictures. ‘See?’
And Lily did see. Dots. Red dots. Seven of them. She had sold seven of her drawings. The fact thrilled her.
It had been Seth who’d insisted she talk to Rebecca, his friend who owned the Oxford gallery. Lily had done a pen-and-ink drawing of the boat, Mairzy Doats, as a thank-you for letting her stay. He’d been delighted, and asked to see some of her other work. Lily had been reluctant, her father’s words still ringing in her ears, even thirty years later: ‘You have to be brilliant to make it as an artist, and you’re not brilliant, Lillian, not by a long chalk.’ But Seth’s obvious enthusiasm had finally won her over.
‘Awesome,’ drawled Ted, examining the art close up.
‘Wow!’ Dillon grinned, putting his arm around her shoulders and squeezing her affectionately.
Sara laughed. ‘God, Mum. These are fantastic. Why didn’t you do this years ago?’
Lily smiled, but didn’t reply. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t done it years ago because she had, finally, created some breathing space, some time to call her own. She missed Freddy, sometimes cried for him, but she didn’t miss hanging on to the coat tails of his crazy, whirlwind existence – being consumed by him. No, these days Lily was in charge of her own fate. And she found she was hugely enjoying the opportunity to make her life exciting . . . all by herself.
The Gloria Steinem quote is taken from her book Outrageous Acts and Everyday Rebellions, second edition, published October 1995 by Holt Paperbacks (first published by Henry Holt & Co., New York, January 1983), quoted by permission.
As always, huge thanks to Jane Wood and the team at Quercus in the production of this book.