‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your partner? Goodness, what’s wrong with you?’
‘Nothing. Honestly, I’m fine.’
‘I don’t even know your partner’s name,’ she said.
‘It’s Joe,’ I replied, too flustered to think of a lie. Leo and Carenza vanished in the face of Connie’s curiosity. ‘He’s working tonight,’ I said.
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s – an antiques dealer.’
‘How fabulous,’ said Connie, sounding genuinely delighted. My face flushed red and I kept my back turned. I took a deep breath and thought about what Laura might say. ‘What period?’ Connie asked.
‘Mainly early twentieth century,’ I replied.
Connie made a noise of happiness. ‘But why’s he working tonight?’
‘He’s up in Yorkshire. There’s a big house auction tomorrow and he wants to get first dibs.’
‘Well, maybe he can come next time.’
‘Thank you, Connie. That would be lovely.’
‘Can you fancy up the pizza a bit? Not just pepperoni?’
‘Of course I can. I did an Italian cookery course, actually. When I – went to Padua. Does Deborah have any allergies?’
‘Padua? How marvellous. She hates anchovies. Everything else is fine.’
*
Connie wandered off, and I heard her office door close one floor up. I sat down at her kitchen table, grateful for the pizza dough under my fingers, the spongy mass yielding under pressure. I imagined Laura, living in a romantic garret in Padua, learning how to make tortellini parcels, proper ricotta and pizza, the best and simplest Italian way. I yearned to be that girl, who took herself off and did that kind of thing. I pulled away my hand and the dough swelled up like a bleached and bloated organ, resisting the imprints of my fingers to leave no trace. Joe the antiques dealer. I imagined him, wandering the endless aisles of an antiques market, looking for the perfect Deco table. Why couldn’t I have said something easier, like a lawyer, or an accountant? No one was interested in asking more questions about them.
I just wanted Joe to seem interesting. I guess the same could be applied to myself.
Whether he was rifling through antiques or making burritos, there was no way I could have Joe here, but even worse than him was Deborah. Rapidly, I went through the scenarios. What if Connie told her I’d been sent from the recruitment agency, and Deborah said she’d never heard of me? They’d want answers. They might even call the police. What if Joe’s warning about being arrested came true? It felt to me as if I’d gained a tiny foothold in this house – that my mother was a few millimetres closer than she’d ever been – and I couldn’t lose this chance. I couldn’t be here when Deborah came. I needed to move through Connie’s rooms unchallenged by outsiders.
I left the dough in a bowl under some clingfilm, and went upstairs to speak to Connie. To my surprise, her office door was open. She was sitting at a narrow desk by the window which overlooked the garden and the backs of other houses. Connie hadn’t heard me approach. She was bent over a yellow writing pad, the profile of her face fixed in concentration, but what I noticed most of all was that she was holding her pen much like a novice Westerner might a chopstick. Her grip was ungainly, unmasterful, lost in a series of actions and contexts that meant nothing to her.
I froze a few feet from the door: I knew I should not be witness to this.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ she said quietly, before throwing the pen down and putting her head in her hands.
I felt such pity. Whilst I cooked for her and sorted her paperwork, made her cups of tea and doled out her Lion bars, she was not up here writing endless reams of marvellous words, but instead was trying to keep hold of her pen.
I backed away. ‘Laura,’ she said.
I turned round, ashamed, and as our eyes met, I saw her shame too, which she quickly masked, sitting upright, resting one elbow elegantly on the edge of the desk.
‘How long have you been standing there?’ she said, her voice harsh. ‘Do you make a habit of spying?’
‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. I wanted to tell her how brave I thought she was, but I suspected she’d hate that. She’d told me, of course – more than once – that her hands were bad, but seeing in the flesh how difficult writing was for her had a very different effect on me than seeing her fumble with a bottle of champagne.
I pretended none of it had happened. Laura Brown would be smooth about things like this: tactful, effortless. ‘I only came to say I’m not feeling too good,’ I said. ‘Is it OK if I make the pizza and then leave tonight?
‘Are you not well?’ Connie replied. ‘You seemed distracted downstairs. Is everything all right?’
‘It’s my period.’ I was unable to think of anything else.
Her face softened. ‘Bloody things. No pun intended. Of course, Laura – don’t worry at all about the food. Go home. Rest. I’ll call Deborah and tell her to pick something up in M&S. Do you need some paracetamol? There’s some in my bathroom cabinet.’
I felt something release inside me; an invisible muscle I’d been holding tense without realizing. I wanted to rush over to Connie and hug her, even though I thought of her as not remotely huggable. I thought about my manager at Clean Bean, a man called Giles. When either me or Zoë had our periods, he couldn’t give a shit that one of us was bent over double, or even, in Zoë’s case, vomiting in the staff loo. If men had periods, Zoë had said under her breath, there’d be twelve weeks’ statutory leave a year, and tampons would be free.
I felt guilty for enjoying Connie’s care even though I was just a coward, hiding. ‘I’ll make your pizza,’ I said. ‘You can’t serve your agent pre-made M&S.’
‘I’ve done it before and no one died,’ said Connie.
‘But that’s what I’m here for. So you can still have nice things.’
Connie looked touched, and as she turned to her notepad and gripped her pen once more, I saw the colour rising in her pale cheek. And again the question occurred to me – when was the last time Connie had someone think about her like this, care about her, existing in close quarters with her? Her readiness to care about me was a surprise, and I wondered how long the impulse, human and natural as it was, had been lying dormant.
‘Yes,’ said Connie. ‘I suppose that’s true. But go and have a lie down in the spare room. Take a paracetamol and have a nap, and if you’re no better in a couple of hours, then please don’t stay on my account.’
*
I decided to swallow the paracetamol, because that’s what Laura would do, given that she said she had her period. I did have a bit of a headache, it was true. I went to the raised first-floor bedroom, which was small, with a single bed and striped mint-green wallpaper; prints in clip frames all round the walls of theatre posters dating as far back as 1975. There was a bookcase full of Connie’s novels in different languages, but I didn’t take them out, feeling yet again that Connie was being so generous, so unwitting, that I should not take advantage. My regard for Connie was fighting my desire to know more about my mother.
I lay on top of the bed, feeling it would be wrong to get under the sheets. I wondered if Elise had ever come into this house, maybe even lain on this bed – and if so, how that had come to be, and when, and how it had all turned out? But almost as soon as my head touched the pillow, I fell asleep – immediately, deeply, the way a child can on a long car journey, or in their parents’ arms.