‘He’s your baby,’ I say quietly, sitting down next to her, and we both watch as Toby makes another journey to the white van, carrying a kettle, a sandwich toaster and a NutriBullet, all trailing wires along the street.
‘That’s my NutriBullet,’ says Tilda, and I can’t help laughing at her expression. ‘I know he has to move out,’ she adds, her eyes not moving from him. ‘I know he has to grow up. I know I pushed him to do all this. But …’ Tears start spilling from her eyes and she pulls a tissue from her pocket. ‘Stupid,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Stupid.’
I watch Toby returning to the house, oblivious of his mother’s grief, bouncing up and down in his hipster trainers, humming a happy tune, ready to start his proper life.
‘The girls will move out,’ I say, suddenly stricken. ‘They’ll move out one day, without looking back.’
I can suddenly see a grown-up Tessa and Anna. Beautiful, leggy women in their twenties. Brisk. Checking their phones constantly. Discounting everything I say because I’m their mother, what do I know?
I’m half hoping Tilda will say something comforting, like, ‘Don’t worry, your girls will be different,’ but she just shakes her head.
‘It’s not even that simple. They’ll try you. Hate you. Scream at you. Need you. Tangle your heart up in theirs. Then they’ll move out without looking back.’
There’s silence for a while. She’s right. And I don’t know how I can dodge it.
‘Some people make it look so easy,’ I say at last, exhaling hard. But Tilda shakes her head wryly.
‘If love is easy, then you’re not doing it right.’
We both watch as Toby carts a double duvet out of the front door.
‘Hey, did you want to talk any more about your website, Sylvie?’ he says as he nears us, and I shake my head.
‘We’re not ready just yet. Thanks, though.’
‘Sure,’ says Toby and carries on down the street, the corners dragging on the dusty pavement.
‘Mind the corners!’ Tilda yells after him – then she shakes her head. ‘Whatever. He’s got a washing machine.’
‘I think Dan’s having an affair,’ I say, staring straight ahead, my voice oddly calm. ‘I found texts. Secret texts. A locked drawer. The whole bit.’
‘Oh fuck.’ Tilda grabs my arm. ‘Fuck. Sylvie, you should have said—’
‘No. It’s fine. It’s fine. I’m going to …’ As I say the words, I realize I don’t have the first idea what I’m going to do. ‘It’s fine,’ I say again. ‘It’ll be fine.’
‘Oh, love.’ Tilda’s arm clamps around my shoulders and squeezes hard. ‘It’s shitty. You two seemed so … Of all the couples, I would have said …’
‘I know!’ I give a tremulous laugh. ‘We were that couple. In fact, you know the really funny thing about Dan and me? I thought I knew him too well.’ I give a mirthless laugh. ‘I thought we were too close. I wanted him to surprise me. Well, guess what, he did. He did.’
‘Look …’ Tilda sighs. ‘Are you sure about this? Could there be any other … Have you talked about it with Dan?’
‘No. Not yet.’ The very thought of ‘talking about it with Dan’ makes my stomach turn over. ‘I guess you just don’t ever know the truth about people.’
‘But Dan.’ Tilda is shaking her head incredulously. ‘Dan. The most loving, thoughtful … I remember him coming over to ours after your father died. He was so worried about you. Obsessed by keeping the noise down so you could sleep. Asked us to walk around in our socks. Which we did,’ she adds with a grin.
I wince. ‘Sorry about that.’ A depressing new thought hits me and I sag. ‘Maybe that’s Dan’s problem. My breakdown was all too much for him.’
There’s a long, heavy silence between us. I can see Tilda’s brow knitting.
‘Hmm,’ she says at last. ‘Your “breakdown”.’
‘Episode,’ I amend awkwardly. ‘However you describe it.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard you talk about your “episode”. But …’ Tilda’s brow is still deeply knitted. ‘I mean … weren’t you just going through grief?’
‘Well yes, of course I was,’ I say, puzzled. ‘But I didn’t cope well.’
‘That’s what you’ve always said. And I’ve never wanted to contradict you, but …’ Tilda sighs and turns to face me. ‘Sylvie, I don’t know if this will help right now, but here goes anyway. I don’t think you had a breakdown. I think you went through grief like any normal person.’
I stare back at her, discomfited, not knowing how to respond.
‘But I wrote that letter,’ I say at last. ‘I went to Gary Butler’s house.’
‘So what? A couple of erratic moments.’
‘But … Dan. My mother. They both said … they called a doctor …’
‘I wouldn’t say your mother is any great judge of anything,’ Tilda cuts me off crisply. ‘And Dan … Dan was always very protective of you. Maybe too much so. Has he ever lost anyone? Been bereaved?’
‘Well … no,’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘No, he hasn’t. No one close.’
‘So he doesn’t know. He wasn’t prepared. He couldn’t bear to see you suffering and he wanted to cure you. Sylvie, grief is long and messy and horrible … but it’s not an illness. And you cope how you cope. There’s no “well” about it.’
She links her arm in mine and we sit there silently for a while. And despite everything, I feel strengthened by what she’s just said. It feels true.
‘I don’t know if that helps,’ she says at last. ‘Probably not.’
‘No, it does,’ I say. ‘It does. You always help.’ I squeeze her tight and give her an impulsive kiss, then get to my feet. ‘I have to go. I’m late.’
‘Shall I walk with you?’ offers Tilda at once and I feel another wave of affection for her.
‘No, no.’ I pat her shoulder. ‘Stay. Say a proper goodbye to Toby. He’ll be back,’ I add over my shoulder as I set off. ‘He’ll be back to see you. You wait.’
FOURTEEN
As I travel to work, the maelstrom in my mind gradually, gradually calms down. Walking along the London pavements, I feel as though with every step I’m pushing my problems down. Away. I mean, I have to get on with life, don’t I? I can’t sit crying and shaking at work.
To my surprise, as I enter Willoughby House, Mrs Kendrick is in the hall, along with Robert and an unfamiliar guy in a blue suit with a shaven head. The guy is looking around the spacious, tiled hall with a practised eye, and I instantly know he’s in property.
‘Hello, Mrs Kendrick!’ I say. ‘How lovely to see you here. It’s been a while!’
‘Sylvie, I’m so sorry.’ She puts a hand on my arm. ‘I know I’ve left you in the lurch recently. I’ve been rather busy.’
‘Robert said you’ve been learning to use a computer?’
‘Indeed I have! I have an Apple Mac.’ She says the words carefully, as though enunciating a foreign language. A-pple Mac.
‘Wow!’ I say. ‘Amazing.’
‘Oh, you can do all sorts of things on it. I bought this “online”, you know.’ She plucks at the white frilly shirt she’s wearing. ‘Do you see? They delivered it straight to my house from the shop. I just had to type in my credit card number. So convenient.’ She nods, as though satisfied with herself. ‘And then I reviewed it on Review Your Stuff. Four stars out of five. Nice fabric but the buttons are a little cheap. You can read my review, if you like.’
I feel a bit speechless. Mrs Kendrick has gone from not knowing what a computer is, barely, to reviewing products online?
‘Right,’ I say at last. ‘Well, I don’t know that particular website—’
‘Oh, but you must, you must.’ She fixes me with a glittering eye. ‘Reviewing is the most marvellous hobby. You can review anything. I reviewed the policeman standing outside my block of flats yesterday.’