Freya opened her mouth and closed it.
‘It’s OK to be sad sometimes, Freya. You almost lost your father, yes? You already lost your mother. Your friends have gone to colleges. You thought you would be all alone.’
Something about the simplicity of this summary caught Freya off guard. A barefooted lady in a silky dress came in, humming a tune, heels dangling from her left hand. Freya said, ‘Use the ones in the restaurant.’
The humming stopped. The door closed. Easy.
‘That’s the spirit,’ Marina said. She put the brush down, rested her hands on Freya’s shoulders. ‘It gets you thinking, no?’
‘What does?’
‘Your father being ill. It makes you think about your mother.’
‘A bit.’
‘It makes you think about what it would be like if you never saw her again, and it stayed like this. If news came tomorrow that she was dead, that it was her who’d had a heart attack. Or that she’d actually been dead for weeks and you’d missed the funeral. Months, maybe. Longer.’
It seemed to Freya that Marina was getting into the swing of this a little too easily.
‘You are a lovely girl, Freya. You don’t have to feel, every time you do or think something that isn’t lovely, that these feelings are your fault.’
‘I don’t. I don’t think they’re my fault.’
‘Well,’ Marina said, ‘that’s good.’
‘You.’ Why not say it? ‘Everyone’s in love with you, Marina. My dad, everyone. I wish I could be more like you.’
‘When I take off this make-up,’ Marina said, ‘it is not pretty. My face is like an animated raisin, Freya. Sunshine — I wish someone had warned me. You’re going to work in documentaries one day.’
‘Me?’
‘You’re going to work for David Attenbrow. You’re going to go to amazing places, Africa. You’re going to get mud in your socks and they will underpay you but you’ll be happy, and you’ll meet a cameraman who is a bit short, maybe, but makes you laugh.’
Another guest came in. Freya was thinking that most cameramen would surely be tall. The guest used the toilet and handed Marina a fifty-pence piece. She walked out without washing her hands.
‘I guess,’ Freya said. ‘Whatever happens, even if he gets sick again, I guess I’ll manage.’
‘Pah,’ Marina said. She got up and rinsed the fifty-pence piece under the tap, then put it in the pocket of her skirt. ‘Manage. Who wants to manage? Fuck that.’ She looked in the mirror again. ‘I lost someone I loved once, you know? My husband. I joke about him. I make things up. I make it like we weren’t in love, and it’s funny. People prefer things that are funny, yes? But he was — it’s not something to discuss. But he was a person I loved. And when you come out of the initial feelings about it, the feeling depressed, it’s not like you’re improved. You just feel different, yes? And the thoughts can come back at any time. Maybe you just have to settle for saying something like this. Something like, “My mother does imperfect things, and so does my father, and so do I.” If you want an alternative to feeling all chewed, you can choose to think that. A choice. I mean, I know it is still a bit … what would you say?’
‘Lame?’
Marina’s lips threatened a smile. ‘Lame. But maybe it is still worth thinking. It’s not that all parents are worth the worrying. Some definitely are not. Some are lame. It’s much more simple and selfish than that. If you get in touch with your mother again and give her another chance, one of two things will happen. You will develop some kind of relationship, or you won’t. Either way, you will have done what you can do. It is always better to clear the air, even if the air often stinks.’
‘Is that an Argentinian saying?’
‘No,’ Marina said.
The lights above the mirror did not flicker. ‘You’re quite good at this, Marina.’
‘I have spent money on cheap wisdom. But the best thing I heard? It was free. It was about one of those parties that everyone gets invited to, where the night comes and you don’t want to go, and you want to make an excuse and stay at home with a movie. You know the ones. It would be inconvenient to go for an hour — that’s all, inconvenient. You are tired or something. Hungover. Maybe you have a cold. But for the person whose party it is, it would mean a lot if you went. And my friend said to me that for most of us, for decent people, the choice each day isn’t between doing something good and doing something bad. It’s between doing something good and doing nothing. So, this is my advice, if you ever want it: always go to the party.’
There was silence for a while. Marina kissed the top of Freya’s head. ‘OK?’ she said.
‘OK.’
Always go to the party. Maybe there were worse rules to live by. It didn’t seem to cover every eventuality, but maybe in time it would.
Marina said, ‘Let me know if you feel like going to the pool sometime. I’m actually an excellent swimmer.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I am good at most things,’ she admitted.
‘My dad told an important guy to go fuck himself. One of the Prime Minister’s staff.’
Marina tilted her head and said, ‘I am lending his decision my support.’ Then she left without a further word.
Freya went outside. She’d delayed the inevitable for too long.
‘Hey, Sooz.’
Susie nodded.
‘Has the protest — has it been good?’
‘Well,’ Susie said, ‘it’s ongoing, obviously, so.’ She was wearing a baggy red jumper and feeding bubble gum into her mouth. She looked determined as she chewed, a muscle flickering in her jaw, and there was a hint of practised disappointment in her eyes. A few other protesters stood nearby, each armed with a banner. No one Freya recognised from the day outside Amadeo’s cafe. Moon-faces on narrow necks, some of the necks wrapped in scarves, a cold October wind coming in from the sea.
‘It’s tough to make people care,’ Susie said. ‘Not you, I’m not having a go. Just people who expressed an interest, you know? Everyone expresses an interest in making their voice heard, and then, in the end, they’re too busy watching TV, or doing their nails, or having massive sex or whatever.’
‘Bouncing ping-pong balls into their beer,’ Freya said.
‘Yeah, I watched some of that.’
‘You did?’
‘If you press your face up against the glass you can see most of the inside. Sebastian got his bag confiscated by one of the security guys.’
‘Oh.’
Susie shivered. ‘Yeah. He was waiting by the cook’s entrance just before ten, like we planned with you —’ she blinked — ‘but apparently this security guy came out and took his bag and said …’
‘Yeah?’
‘“Bugger off.”’
Unlikely as it seemed, Susie was smiling.
‘So …’
‘So apparently he wants to be a lawyer,’ Susie said. ‘Sebastian, I mean. His dad wants him to work for his firm, this place in London called Hangers, so he can’t risk doing any more stuff for a while, in case he gets a criminal record, he said.’ She took a pack of Hubba from her pocket. ‘Want some?’
They chewed and looked at their shoes. Seven policemen with skin of varying ruddiness were standing by the hotel entrance, drinking steaming coffee, one from the cap of a shiny flask and the others from cardboard cups.
‘I’ve been trying to hang out,’ Susie said. ‘I’ve been trying to see you. Just to ask how your dad is, or whatever. I heard and stuff.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Didn’t you get my messages? The ones saying let’s just hang out?’
‘I’ve been really busy. Distracted.’
‘Your dad,’ Susie said.