“You’ve read it?” Belinda looks pleased and steps toward me, peering into my eyes as though trying to find something inside. “Well, don’t go changing, Ted doesn’t need another tiger in his life.”
“I am not a bloody bear, OK,” I explode. Something about her tone has pressed all my buttons, her territorial pacing around the room, as though she’s about to spray the house with her musk. “You don’t get to say what animal I am.”
“Whoa,” says Ted, stepping between us. “OK, let’s just take the animal aura conversation down a notch. Belinda, what did you want to say—before you go.” He pauses, looking at her pleadingly. “And I do think you need to go.”
Belinda waves a hand between us.
“I like that she has fire in her belly.” Belinda gives me a smug smile. “And that she’s read my book.”
“Wait. Your book?” I say after a beat. “You wrote Tiger Woman?”
“What’s Tiger Woman?” Ted asks, looking between us in confusion.
“Only the bestselling self-help book of the year,” I say, unable to hide my amazement.
“We don’t use the term ‘self-help,’ ” says Belinda, wincing, “but thank you. We’d describe it as a memoir, of a woman throwing off the reins of the patriarchy, of societal oppression and expectation. It’s about reclaiming your base nature, finding your inner Tigress.”
Ted’s face is screwed into a knot of confusion.
“What?” he says.
“You’re a bear, you wouldn’t understand. Anyway, the long and short of it is, until all this paperwork is filed, we’re still married.” She pulls a wad of papers from her bag. “So technically some of my tiger riches will come to you.”
“I don’t understand,” Ted says, looking between us both.
“This book has sold like a billion copies,” I explain to Ted, feeling my eyes bulging from their sockets.
“I have two more book deals in the pipeline: Tiger Woman Eats and Tiger Woman Sleeps.” Belinda gives a little yawn, then turns to Ted with a more serious expression. “I would like to pay for Gerry’s care. He is family to me.” She pauses, serious for a moment, talking only to Ted. “Look, I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’ll never forget what we once were to each other, but my path is now a solo one. I didn’t know how to extract myself from us, except by cutting the thread.” She looks guilty for a moment, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I was selfish—thinking what would be easiest for me.”
“I was worried when you disappeared,” Ted says, his voice firm and controlled. “But I don’t need you to come in and fix anything. I can look after my own father.”
“I know, and I know I have amends to make, but— He’s so upset about you selling this house because of him, Ted. Please let me help.”
Ted sighs, and Belinda goes on, “Just have my half of the London house, if you’d rather do it that way; you put down the initial deposit, so it’s only fair. However we work it out, don’t sell Sans Ennui, please.”
“Fine, I’ll keep the house.” Ted gives a short, sharp nod. “Congratulations on your book success.” He smiles briefly at Belinda then turns back to me.
Belinda claps her hands. “I think this is a group hug moment,” she says, reaching out her arms to me. I definitely do not think this a group hug moment—I’m skeptical of group hugs at the best of times—but before I can stop her, she embraces me with her long, lean, tigery arms.
Chapter 33
Dad’s box sits unopened on the floor of the cottage for several days. I don’t get to it because I am too busy exploring the island, spending time with Ted, and meeting the rest of my Jersey family. My great-uncle Graham and his children are warm and welcoming, and interested in me—everything I could have hoped they would be.
It is not until Thursday morning, when I am due to leave that afternoon, that I finally get round to opening the box. I owe it to my dad to at least look through some of the paltry remains of his life on this earth. Helping Ted with the house, sorting through my mother’s things, it’s made me wonder what I want the world to remember me by. It might be morbid to think about death, but losing both my parents has made me conscious of how short life can be; it’s made me think about what kind of legacy I’d like to leave.
Then again, maybe Gerry is right; there’s no point worrying what the future holds or looking back on the past. Today I am happy. Today I feel lucky. Today the world is a good place to be. Maybe the only real legacy any of us can hope to leave is to be a link in the chain that keeps love flowing through the generations.
I take a photo of everything in the box. I’ll hold on to the letters Mum wrote, but there is nothing else here I want to keep. At the very bottom of the box, I find a padded envelope hidden between two crime novels. Inside the envelope are two cassettes. They are mixtapes, identical, and written on the spine of each tape case, in Dad’s handwriting, is “The Soundtrack to Your Life.” There are some great song choices, and even two Phil Collins tracks. I smile—maybe Dad really did love Phil Collins after all.
Underneath the tapes is a card.
Dear Laura,
Welcome to the Soundtrack to Your Life! I’m going to record a mixtape for every one of your birthdays from now on. I’ll send one to your mum for you to listen to and keep a copy, so you’ll have a complete collection when you’re eighteen. When you’re old enough to appreciate it, you can sit back and listen to your life as I heard it. I might not see you as much as I’d like, little one, but I’ll be damned if you grow up having shit taste in music. This is the first tape—twenty of the best songs from around the time you were born. Songs that make me think of you, songs me and your mum listened to the summer we met. Can’t wait to see you when I’m back from Morocco, precious girl.
All my love, Dad
He never sent it. He made the tapes, wrote the letter, but he hadn’t addressed the envelope. I know I shouldn’t need this proof. I know now that love can’t be measured in objects or shared tastes, but, reading his words addressed to me, seeing the songs he chose—“Another Day in Paradise,” “That’s Just the Way It Is”—it’s like he knew exactly what I needed to hear: the epilogue to my parents’ story. I hug the tapes to my chest.
* * *
* * *
Sandy is hosting a goodbye lunch for me in her garden before Ted takes me to the airport. I’ve been in Jersey a whole week now, yet it feels as though I’ve been here for months. Perhaps Jersey is like Narnia in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and I’ve been here for years, but in London time, only a few minutes have passed.