Hi, massive apologies again. It honestly came from wanting to be a good brother-in-law and uncle, that’s all. I’m sorry. I am happy to continue looking after the business until I’m back at work, but will drop off all the paperwork etc. if you’d rather I didn’t do it any more. Dan
Another day, another apologetic text. Overcome by the guilty feeling he had bungled everything, Dan had contacted Zoe on Monday evening, but no reply had come and he didn’t dare push the matter. Did she hate him? It had certainly looked that way when she stormed out of his house. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her, but he was pretty sure he had. Very badly. Again.
It was sod’s law that a delivery arrived for him that morning, which turned out to be the superhero costume he’d ordered for Gabe’s party the following weekend: Thor, Gabe’s favourite. The costume came with a red flowing cape, padded six-pack moulded armour, a blonde wig and a plastic hammer. How ironic. He stuffed it all back in the packaging, unable to look at it. Was he still even welcome at the party?
Over in the shop, Lydia’s eye was caught by a woman walking past the window with long brown hair, like her mum’s, and she was catapulted straight back into one of her favourite memories. She must have been about twelve when she first got to grips with her mum’s sewing machine and discovered the joys of making cushion covers and a simple tote bag, and then one day Eleanor had taken her to Goldhawk Road, just the two of them, to browse around the many fabric shops there.
Eleanor Fox had been a fantastic needlewoman, making clothes for the whole family, her own wedding dress even. The low hum of the sewing machine had been the sound that Lydia fell asleep to all through her childhood. ‘I think you’re ready to start using proper dressmaking patterns,’ Eleanor had said thrillingly, as they entered the first shop, and Lydia’s heart had leapt to see all the rolls and rolls of different fabrics lined up, so many shades and patterns. Her mum had squeezed Lydia’s hand as if she shared her daughter’s excitement. ‘Let’s treat ourselves.’
She could still remember the sewing pattern she’d chosen that day – she probably still had it somewhere in a box of craft stuff. A simple round-necked dress with a high–low hemline. ‘Ooh, nice,’ her mum said approvingly. ‘Now, what fabric would you like?’
The finished dress would not have won any prizes, admittedly – it suffered from some wayward, clumsy seams and the zip at the back never quite sat flat – but it marked the start of a love-affair in earnest between Lydia and the needle. Over the years it became a ritual: she and Eleanor taking the bus to Goldhawk Road together to choose a new pattern each, fabric and buttons and thread. ‘When you’re older – maybe eighteen – I’ll take you to my favourite sewing shop in Sydney,’ her mum had once said, over a post-shopping hot chocolate in a café near the bus stop. ‘Would you like that?’
Forever after, Lydia had associated the taste of hot chocolate with sheer happiness. ‘Really? I would love that,’ she had replied.
Sewing remained a communication channel between mother and daughter for the rest of the time they had together. When Lydia was fifteen, Eleanor bought her her own sewing machine, and the two of them often commandeered the kitchen table in the evenings so that they could sew away companionably together. They made each other birthday and Christmas gifts – a skirt, a bag, embroidered cushion covers. ‘I’m so jealous,’ her mum sighed when Lydia showed her the prospectus for the London College of Fashion. ‘Hey, do you think they’d let an oldie like me enrol too? Wouldn’t that be something?’ Even when her mum became ill and lost her hair, Lydia made her light chiffon scarves to wrap around her head, every stitch an I love you, every seam a Please get better.
The shop door jangled just then and Lydia blinked out of her reverie. She’d been miles away, she realized, turning to greet the customer. But said customer was already speaking, loud and angry.
‘What the hell,’ she asked, marching up to the counter, ‘is your fucking game?’
Lydia stared in shock. First, because nobody ever raised their voice in this shop; and second, because the customer in front of her was Zoe, Patrick’s wife, looking puce in the face, fists clenched as if she was about to hit her. ‘W-what?’ she stuttered.
‘It is you, isn’t it? On Dan’s chart. Lydia. You must think I’m some kind of idiot.’
‘I . . . No,’ said Lydia, trying to get her head around this. Dan’s chart? ‘I don’t—’
‘You planned this from the start, I’m guessing. You took advantage of me. Found out who I was and then went planting lies left, right and centre.’
‘What? No!’ Was the woman crazy? This furious outburst was the exact inverse of Zoe’s first appearance in the shop when she’d been limp with grief, practically unable to support her own weight, her face puffy with tears. Now she was rigid with anger, eyes blazing, one finger stabbing the air with each accusation. ‘I’ve no idea what this is all about,’ Lydia stammered.
‘Yeah, right.’ The words dripped with sarcasm. ‘Lying that you had a child with my husband? You’re like some kind of parasite. You disgust me!’
‘Everything all right?’ said Jonathan coming in from the back room. He was carrying a coffee each for Lydia and himself, and his startled gaze swung from one woman to the next. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, a hint of steel entering his voice.
‘Ask your psychopath colleague,’ Zoe said, trembling. ‘I should sue you for slander,’ she added, turning back to Lydia. ‘How could you? Preying on a vulnerable woman, trying to get your hands on my money, I’m guessing – well, forget it!’ Then without warning she grabbed the nearest object off the shelf beside her – a tall dip-dyed vase – and hurled it at Lydia. Lydia ducked, but the vase hit the wall behind her and shattered into pieces.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Jonathan shouted, putting down the mugs and striding over towards Zoe. ‘Get out of my shop right now or I’m calling the police. Lydia, are you all right? Are you hurt?’
Gulping and tearful, Zoe wheeled around towards the exit. Just as she was pushing the door open, Lydia recovered herself enough to shout, ‘I’m not lying. It’s all true. It’s all TRUE!’
The door slammed behind Zoe, and Lydia’s knees began to shake. Jonathan came over and put an arm round her. ‘Who was that lunatic? Are you okay?’ he asked. Lydia was trembling all over, her heart pounding. ‘What on earth was all that about?’
Dan was out running again, this time along the riverside in Barnes, when his phone rang. He slowed to a walk, fumbling to retrieve it from his pocket. ‘Hello,’ he said, breath puffing out of him.
‘I’ve just had your sister-in-law in the shop,’ Lydia said without preamble. ‘Red in the face and screaming at me. Threw a hundred-pound vase at my head too, which smashed everywhere. Why didn’t you think to warn me she knew? Not that she was admitting to knowing anything, she seemed to be completely in denial. Accused me of making the whole thing up.’
‘Oh God,’ said Dan, stopping completely. All the blood rushed to his head. ‘How did she . . . ? Shit.’ Then he remembered the crumpled spreadsheet. Who the fuck is Lydia? He groaned. Zoe must have gone flicking through her mental folder of Lydias, recalled his reaction when he first saw that business card on her fridge and put two and two together, he guessed. ‘Wait, did you say she’d thrown a vase at your head?’ he asked, catching up with Lydia’s words. Had Zoe become completely deranged? ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeah. No harm done. Well, apart from the vase. And me feeling really embarrassed in front of Jonathan.’
Dan exhaled, a long rush of dismay. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘Zoe and I had a bit of a bust-up yesterday – she came over and . . . Well, everything’s gone wrong, basically. She’s really angry with me. And yes, when she saw your name, I briefly told her about you – that Jemima was Patrick’s daughter, but she wouldn’t believe me and—’
‘Hold on. Where did she see my name?’ Lydia asked. ‘I don’t understand. She said something about a . . . a chart?’
Dan shut his eyes. ‘She . . . ah. Yes. Well. I sort of drew one up: for myself, listing the things I was doing as part of my plan.’
There was a pause where he imagined Lydia screwing up her face in a frown. ‘What – and I was on the chart?’ She sounded suspicious now.
‘Yes, but—’ He struggled to find the right words. ‘You know I talked to you about my sabbatical? How I was sort of picking up the slack, with Patrick not being around for the last two months I was off work, and—’
‘So I was part of that?’ Suspicion had given way to indignation, he detected. Injury, even. ‘Jemima and I, we were just “slack”?’
‘No!’ God, he wished he wasn’t having this conversation out on Putney Embankment, with people shooting him curious looks as they went by. He began walking again, speaking in a lower voice, his head turned away from passers-by. ‘No, of course not. It was more that I was trying to fill in for my brother. Doing things he would have done – and beyond. And—’
‘Let me get this straight, because I’m really confused,’ Lydia said, cutting in. ‘At the end of next month, or whenever you go back to work, you were going to wash your hands of me and Jemima, and this chart? Time’s up, job done?’
‘No. Absolutely not!’ His heart was pounding. ‘I don’t want that. Do you?’
There was a terrifying pause when she didn’t reply immediately.
Unable to bear the silence, Dan ploughed straight on, desperate to explain himself. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘About all of this. I’m really, really sorry. Honestly. I put you on the spreadsheet initially because you were sort of a job to deal with at first – a mystery on the bank statement to clear up. But then I met you and got to know you, and . . . things changed. I promise. I want to keep seeing you, whatever happens. I want to be a part of your life. Jemima’s, too.’
She sighed down the phone and his heart clenched at the sound. Was that good or bad? Contemptuous or weary? ‘Right,’ Lydia said eventually. ‘Look, I’d better get back to work. Just thought you should know what had happened. I mean, she was seriously out of control. That was a big, hefty vase as well. If it had hit me . . .’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said yet again, because it seemed like the only thing he had left to offer. ‘I’ll talk to her,’ he added, even though he was fairly sure Zoe wouldn’t want to listen.
Then they said goodbye and he put his phone away, setting off once more, in the hope of finding the former rhythm of his run. It was no use, though. His legs felt heavy and his mind was whirling in all directions, trying to imagine the scene in Lydia’s shop: Zoe bursting in, shouting at Lydia and throwing a vase at her . . . It seemed grotesque, impossible. He had never known Zoe act in such a violent or wild manner before.
He had done this to her, he thought unhappily, jogging through a puddle and barely noticing as the muddy water splattered up his shins. He was responsible. What was worse was the fact that he had no clue how to put any of this right again.