back a little.
‘Didn’t you tell me you have a daughter?’ I ask.
‘One daughter,’ she says. ‘Six years old.’
I see her face plump out with happiness at the thought of her child.
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s at home. In my mother’s village.’
‘But who is looking after her?’
‘My mother.’
‘Gosh. Don’t you miss her?’
She looks at me blankly, her mouth turned down at the corners. Of course she misses her – stupid of me to ask.
‘What happened, Mona? What happened to your husband?’
She turns her head aside. I’ve trodden on sensitive ground again. How silly of me.
‘I’m sorry. That must be painful. Tell me about your daughter?’
She smiles now. She starts to speak, her hands dancing as she does so, emphasising each word in a kind of mime.
‘She’s six years old. She’s funny, she loves the colour pink. She loves to dress as grown-up, and to play at houses. But where I live, there’s no money, no work. It costs
a lot for her to go to school, for books and clothes. I want to make a future for Leila. And she’s OK with my mother.’
I look at Mona, re-jigging the perceptions I have of her. If her daughter is only six, then perhaps she isn’t my age at all, but younger – quite a lot younger. I notice now that her
skin is indeed quite smooth, that the fatigue that had aged her when she arrived has lifted a little. Like tarnished silver after it’s been polished.
‘It’s hard being away from a child. When my marriage ended and I came back to London, Leo stayed with his father and I was heartbroken. It was like . . . it’s like having a bit
of your body torn from you. But he was at school out there and was settled and I didn’t want to disrupt him. It’s so wonderful that he wanted to come back for sixth form.’
The food is delicious. I take another mouthful, another glug of the red wine I’ve poured.
After I’ve eaten, I tell Mona to check on Daddy and then to take some time off. When she’s gone I fill up my glass – I’m going to take some wine up to
drink in the bath – and as I’m about to go up, I glance into Mona’s room. She’s left the door ajar, the lamp on. On the antique bureau is a vase of roses. They are pink
roses, in bud, in my tall glass vase.
The roses Daddy bought for Mummy.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I let the rose incident pass. I need Mona too badly to make an issue of minor transgressions.
The following Saturday I take advantage of her. I go to the gym, have my hair done, walk back along the river. It’s one of those crisp autumn mornings with a bright, low sun. I feel as if
Mummy is very close to me, maybe walking along beside me as I head home.
Feeling her presence, sensing that death has not torn her away from me but that she lies very close on the other side of an imperceptible membrane tensile as the cobwebs that veiled my walls
– until Mona arrived – soothes me.
The tide’s out. I can hear people with children down on the beach, hunting along the tideline, and pleasure boats pootling about on the water purring gently and sending waves rippling
across to lap the shore. I breathe deeply, drawing in the silty smell.
As I walk, my mobile pings and my heart leaps. I barely dare to look. To see if it’s Max. It’s only 7 a.m. in New York. But maybe he’s not in New York – maybe he’s
here.
Hi gorgeous, I’m coming through London on Wednesday. Meet me under Boudicca, Westminster Bridge, 5 p.m.
I text back immediately, telling him I’m free. Free! I have Mona! I can accept an invitation from my lover with no hesitation for the first time in months.
I feel good. Cleansed inside and out. From the gym, from the hair-do. And from the release of the anxiety that hounds me until I hear from Max.
You could almost be at the seaside here, if you shut your eyes. I enjoy the warmth of the sun on my face, the rattle of the waves on the shore, the mewl of the seagulls. Yet the view itself has
its own beauty, the black spikes
‘Didn’t you tell me you have a daughter?’ I ask.
‘One daughter,’ she says. ‘Six years old.’
I see her face plump out with happiness at the thought of her child.
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s at home. In my mother’s village.’
‘But who is looking after her?’
‘My mother.’
‘Gosh. Don’t you miss her?’
She looks at me blankly, her mouth turned down at the corners. Of course she misses her – stupid of me to ask.
‘What happened, Mona? What happened to your husband?’
She turns her head aside. I’ve trodden on sensitive ground again. How silly of me.
‘I’m sorry. That must be painful. Tell me about your daughter?’
She smiles now. She starts to speak, her hands dancing as she does so, emphasising each word in a kind of mime.
‘She’s six years old. She’s funny, she loves the colour pink. She loves to dress as grown-up, and to play at houses. But where I live, there’s no money, no work. It costs
a lot for her to go to school, for books and clothes. I want to make a future for Leila. And she’s OK with my mother.’
I look at Mona, re-jigging the perceptions I have of her. If her daughter is only six, then perhaps she isn’t my age at all, but younger – quite a lot younger. I notice now that her
skin is indeed quite smooth, that the fatigue that had aged her when she arrived has lifted a little. Like tarnished silver after it’s been polished.
‘It’s hard being away from a child. When my marriage ended and I came back to London, Leo stayed with his father and I was heartbroken. It was like . . . it’s like having a bit
of your body torn from you. But he was at school out there and was settled and I didn’t want to disrupt him. It’s so wonderful that he wanted to come back for sixth form.’
The food is delicious. I take another mouthful, another glug of the red wine I’ve poured.
After I’ve eaten, I tell Mona to check on Daddy and then to take some time off. When she’s gone I fill up my glass – I’m going to take some wine up to
drink in the bath – and as I’m about to go up, I glance into Mona’s room. She’s left the door ajar, the lamp on. On the antique bureau is a vase of roses. They are pink
roses, in bud, in my tall glass vase.
The roses Daddy bought for Mummy.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I let the rose incident pass. I need Mona too badly to make an issue of minor transgressions.
The following Saturday I take advantage of her. I go to the gym, have my hair done, walk back along the river. It’s one of those crisp autumn mornings with a bright, low sun. I feel as if
Mummy is very close to me, maybe walking along beside me as I head home.
Feeling her presence, sensing that death has not torn her away from me but that she lies very close on the other side of an imperceptible membrane tensile as the cobwebs that veiled my walls
– until Mona arrived – soothes me.
The tide’s out. I can hear people with children down on the beach, hunting along the tideline, and pleasure boats pootling about on the water purring gently and sending waves rippling
across to lap the shore. I breathe deeply, drawing in the silty smell.
As I walk, my mobile pings and my heart leaps. I barely dare to look. To see if it’s Max. It’s only 7 a.m. in New York. But maybe he’s not in New York – maybe he’s
here.
Hi gorgeous, I’m coming through London on Wednesday. Meet me under Boudicca, Westminster Bridge, 5 p.m.
I text back immediately, telling him I’m free. Free! I have Mona! I can accept an invitation from my lover with no hesitation for the first time in months.
I feel good. Cleansed inside and out. From the gym, from the hair-do. And from the release of the anxiety that hounds me until I hear from Max.
You could almost be at the seaside here, if you shut your eyes. I enjoy the warmth of the sun on my face, the rattle of the waves on the shore, the mewl of the seagulls. Yet the view itself has
its own beauty, the black spikes
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