The fog was thickening. People rushed past her in the other direction trying to get to their train. By now sweat was streaming from every pore. She needed to sit down but there was nowhere. Just as she thought she would collapse onto the concourse a young man stopped and asked, ‘Are you all right?’
Natasha tried to speak but nothing came out. Everything inside her crumpled and she fell against him.
Chapter Thirty
Mel
It was Sunday, a week after her dinner with Georgie and Farouk. Jacob was still with Claude and Jo, though he’d texted he’d be back tonight. Mel had spent the week blotting out her loneliness by returning to chambers after court every afternoon, visiting the pub with colleagues in the evening. Was she a coward to keep avoiding Natasha? A couple of times she’d seen her disappearing down the corridor ahead of her. But Jacob’s pleading echoed in her mind. He didn’t want Mel mentioning the connection. He was a child in some ways but not in others. Was it her duty to warn people about Natasha? Or was it just a bit of silly mischief-making? Worst of all, she had no idea what Jacob had done.
No one seemed concerned that the pupil–supervisor relationship had broken down. Natasha had her own work. What if she had missed out on a tenancy this time around? She was competent, building connections. Everyone assumed she would find something somewhere else.
By midday, tired of the weekend silence, Mel bundled some papers and her laptop into a bag, threw the bag into her car and set off for Dulwich. Isabel had explained she was going out to the V&A with her new friend. They were having lunch at the museum and would be back around teatime. That suited Mel. She would work on tomorrow’s case in the quiet of her mother’s sitting room. She would put out the tea things and be nice and daughterly when Isabel arrived home. And she would be intrigued to meet the new friend.
Isabel had mentioned a cleaner, but Mel was unprepared for the transformation. The smell had gone; papers were in neat piles; there was no trace of a dirty glass or cup. There was even a bunch of huge pink lilies in a glass vase, filling the room with that sickening scent that always reminded her of funerals. The house was hushed, only the sound of the occasional car entering or leaving the crescent, the buzz of muffled talk from a radio on the other side of the adjoining wall. A lawnmower broke the stillness and she was transported back more than thirty years to summer afternoons, lying on the landing, waiting for her mother’s return.
It had been more than twenty years since she had waited for her mother. After they had killed her off in Canada Row, Isabel had always been the one to wait for Mel, irritable, demanding, her affection tinged with a hint of resentment. The resentment might be aimed at the world at large, but Mel was often the recipient of her not-so-subtle barbs.
‘Maybe you should visit her less often,’ Claude had suggested. But visiting her mother had been more than just a duty. Her mother’s life was meshed with her own; you could no more pull them apart than you could pull stitches from a garment. And when Isabel’s face lit up on seeing Jacob, her daughter could forgive her anything.
Not long after she had settled on the sofa with her laptop and papers, she heard the crunch of a key and the swing and clunk of an opening and closing door. Then her mother’s voice, calm and solicitous. The muffled reply was monosyllabic, subdued. But Mel knew that voice. Her skin felt suddenly tight on her body. She jumped out of her chair. It could not be true.
But it was. Standing behind her mother, wearing an old-fashioned green suit and looking more dishevelled and confused than Mel had ever seen her, was Natasha. Without acknowledging Mel, she moved unsteadily across the room to an empty armchair and flopped down.
‘She’s had an accident. A hyper,’ said her mother, who appeared younger and more confident than she had for years. She might have been off to an elegant drinks party. She wore a sleek black dress, a diamond brooch and an oversized hair ornament perched on the top of her head like a turkey’s crest.
‘Hypo,’ murmured Natasha, looking up briefly, though still not acknowledging Mel. ‘But I’m OK. It was stupid. I was stupid.’
‘No, you’re not, darling.’ And then, looking at Mel, she added, ‘She fainted in Victoria Station. Just imagine. The place was packed. No one gave a damn.’
‘The young man was nice,’ said Natasha.
‘At last. When you were nearly dead,’ said Isabel.
‘I’m fine now, Isabel. You saved me. And like I said, it was my own silly fault.’
‘Stop blaming yourself, sweetheart.’
Mel still could not speak.
‘Well, aren’t you going to say anything?’ said her mother. ‘Natasha dear, this is my daughter Melanie.’
‘Hi, Melanie.’ Natasha’s lip curled halfway between smile and smirk. Mel’s body felt very cold. Her head was bursting. Knowing she needed to stay calm, she tried slow breathing, avoiding Natasha’s narrowed eyes. But she couldn’t avoid Natasha herself, sitting in front of her with her Cheshire cat grin. She turned and walked into the kitchen.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Isabel, following her in.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ asked Mel.
‘Tell you what?’
‘About Natasha.’
‘I’m telling you now. The poor girl collapsed. We got a taxi back and picked up a sandwich en route. She looks better now. I certainly hope so.’
‘She’s my pupil. The one I told you about. The one that’s been so difficult. Didn’t you recognise the name?’
‘Oh, I never remember names these days. But what a coincidence.’ Isabel looked troubled. ‘She told me she was training to be a lawyer. I don’t think she said barrister. I don’t recall.’
‘She knew you were my mother.’
‘Why would she know that? Oh, the photograph.’ There was a graduation photograph of Mel on one of the bookcases. ‘She must have missed it. You’ve changed a bit. Most of the family pictures are Jacob.’
‘She knows Jacob too. And she knows you’re my mother, because I told her.’
‘Goodness, I wonder why she didn’t say.’
Because she’s a scheming bitch, thought Mel. Though what she said was, ‘We’ll find out.’
She took a deep breath, gathered her thoughts and went back into the sitting room. Natasha was still in the armchair, though she seemed to have recovered and was leafing through a copy of Vogue from the coffee table.
‘So?’ Mel’s question sounded accusing. It was meant to.
‘Yes?’
‘What’s going on?’
Natasha put down the magazine. Her smile was gentler now. ‘Silly isn’t it? I had intended to tell your mother, but it just didn’t come up. We got on so well. To tell the truth I knew you’d taken against me and I was worried you might try to put her off me.’
‘How did you get in here?’
‘Get in?’
‘Yes, get in this house, inveigle yourself inside, invade my mother’s life? More importantly why did you do it? But I guess I don’t need to ask that. It’s what you do isn’t it. Some people would call it stirring. Personally, I think it’s more serious than that.’
Before Natasha could reply her mother intervened.