A Hopeless Romantic

Laura nodded. She agreed. It was all part of it, she knew. Her feeling of having been evangelically cleansed. She had had her time in the wilderness, and A Sign had come to her to show her The Way. Sure, it was a disease-ridden pigeon, and it had almost given her a heart attack, but she had felt and interpreted its symbolism as keenly as if she were an A-level student reading Emily Brontë for the first time. And she knew what she was going to do next.

‘Thank you,’ said Laura, smoothing her long, black linen skirt down with her hands and then clasping them lightly in front of her. Her hair was clean and soft, tied up in a neat ponytail which brushed the back of her neck. The breeze through the window blew gently across her face and chest. She felt so in control now. She glanced around the room, her eye falling on the bookshelf, piled high with her own books and videos, the self-indulgent ones she daren’t have out in the sitting room. It was an unspoken agreement between her and Paddy. The Godfather and Spinal Tap were out in the sitting room, along with various thrillers and classics and the usual clutter of shared possessions. But each flatmate kept their own personal tastes to their bedroom. So Paddy’s room had all his weird sci-fi and fantasy novels, his Buffy and Angel boxed sets, whilst Laura kept all her Georgette Heyers and her romantic comedy videos in her room.

She looked at them affectionately, the rows of pink and purple plastic video-box covers and the lines of paperback books, their spines cracked with repeated rereading. An idea came into her head, one so terrible she shrank from putting it into action, but she realised that to make a fresh start she would have to. She gazed unseeingly at these architects of her doom. Really, she could blame them for a lot of what had happened. Putting ideas in her head. She needed a different role model now. Perhaps she didn’t need them any more. Perhaps – no, that was a bit too extreme, wasn’t it?

Her eye fell upon an old hardback of Rebecca, at the end of the shelf, and she picked it up, idly leafing through the pages. Maybe it was time to read it again. She needed cheering up.

Laura adored Rebecca, it was one of her favourite books. She loved the poor, unnamed Mrs de Winter with a passion, wanted to be her, and desperately loathed evil Rebecca, whom she saw in her mind’s eye as looking very much like Amy. And Maxim…well, he was the embodiment of everything a romantic hero should be…in every way. Brooding, dark, passionate, brusque – just perfect, and she…

Laura brought herself up short. The breeze through the window picked up and she suddenly felt her blood run cold, as Mr Kowolczyk the glazier whistled quietly in the corner.

That’s it. You see? she said to herself. This is why you’re in so much trouble. Get a grip! Mrs de Winter was a complete idiot! She should have married some nice banker from Cheam and lived a nondescript life with him instead of falling head over heels in love with Max de Winter, driving around Monte Carlo, weeping hopelessly over people and fleeing burning buildings. There, right there, was a symbol of what she was doing wrong. She, Laura Foster, would not behave like that any more. She would emulate someone else instead. Mrs Danvers, in fact. The good old reliable housekeeper.

At this idea Laura felt her heart beat faster. Yes, Mrs Danvers. OK, she was a bit mad. In fact, you could call her a homicidal maniac with an obsession with a dead person, namely Rebecca, and an unpleasant penchant for appearing silently in doorways. And she was a pyromaniac. But – but, Laura thought, as this idea took root – at least she wasn’t a fool. She was neatly dressed, ran the house beautifully, moved silently, and was always in control of her emotions. It was so true, Laura couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it before. Mrs Danvers was the kind of person one would do best to follow (well, up to a certain point), not useless Mrs de Winter, who bleated and cried and kept saying things like, ‘Oh Max, what shall we do? Oh Max, I do love you so much! Oh Max, I have just fallen over as I have no spine to support me.’ No, Mrs Danvers knew keeping the house in order was best. Keeping yourself busy. Putting aside bad things. Having respect for one’s friends and family. OK, perhaps sometimes in a rather extreme way. But it was as good a place to start as any. As Laura ran through the list of broken fences she had to mend, she felt slightly sick, and then suddenly she realised what she had to do, whom she had to see. Not just because she ought to, because she actually wanted to.

Laura straightened herself up. She smoothed down her skirt and pursed her lips.

‘May I get you a drink, Mr Kowolczyk?’ she asked politely. ‘A cup of tea, maybe? Or can I offer you some coffee?’

She gave a thin smile, and raised one eyebrow, as Mrs Danvers would. Mr Kowolczyk looked at her, somewhat bemused.

‘What?’ he said.

Laura came to. ‘Er, sorry, sorry,’ she said, collecting herself hurriedly. ‘Just – er. Coffee? Tea?’

‘Yes, coffee please,’ said Mr Kowolczyk. ‘Three sugars. Look –’ he waved vaguely towards the window with his chisel, and smiled kindly at her. ‘Fresh air, yes? Nice to get fresh air into your room.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Laura darkly, nodding at him. ‘Fresh air. Oh yes.’ She paused in the doorway, and gave him another cold smile, before gliding (she hoped) smoothly down the corridor to the kitchen.

‘Thank you,’ Mr Kowolczyk called out.

Laura reappeared in the room. ‘Er, I’ve just realised I have to pop out in about five minutes,’ she said in her normal voice. ‘Will you be OK to finish up by yourself, and let yourself out?’

‘Of course,’ said Mr Kowolczyk. ‘Going somewhere nice?’

‘Yes,’ said Laura, standing in the doorway. She smiled at him. ‘I’m going to see my grandmother.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Mr Kowolczyk. ‘Good girl. She old lady? You see her a lot?’

‘She’s amazing,’ said Laura. ‘And, no, I haven’t seen her a lot. Not for a while. I think that might be part of the problem.’

‘What problem?’ said Mr Kowolczyk, but she had disappeared again.

CHAPTER TWELVE (#ulink_916efa16-58f2-5f6b-bf31-19ce77733e7b)

So, just before lunchtime, Laura rang on the doorbell of Mary’s flat.

‘It’s me,’ she said nervously, when the well-known, rather imperious voice of her grandmother said, ‘Yes?’ over the intercom. ‘Your long-lost granddaughter, come to reintroduce herself to you.’

‘Goodness gracious,’ said Mary. ‘This is a surprise. Come up, darling, come up.’

Laura had walked a lot of the way, enjoying being outside. But now she was tired, her early enthusiasm waning, and she felt naked and exposed being out in the normal world again. She kind of wanted to go back to bed, but stiffened her sinews and climbed the stairs up to the second floor. There, in the doorway, a gin and tonic in her hand and a smile on her face, was her grandmother.

Mary Fielding was still as beautiful at eighty-four as she had been thirty years before. She carried her age with an elegance that owed nothing to expensive clothes or fine airs. She could tap-dance, she could sew, she adored Elvis and cowboy films, and she spoke five languages. She was the best grandmother ever, all in all, and as Laura saw her standing there she knew she’d been right to come.

‘It’s been far too long,’ she said, as Laura came towards her. ‘You’re practically a stranger, darling. Good grief,’ she added, as she saw Laura’s face, ‘what’s happened?’

‘Everything,’ mumbled Laura, wiping her nose inelegantly on her hand. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so crap, Gran. I haven’t seen you for ages.’

‘No,’ said Mary, ‘but you’re here now. Let’s get you a drink. Come inside and tell me all about it.’

Laura sat on the grey velvet sofa, a drink in her hand, not knowing how to start or what to say next. She was feeling infinitely calmer now she was inside Mary’s flat. She looked around the room, thinking briefly how much it reminded her of all of her life – more, in a way, than her parents’ house in Harrow where she’d grown up. The photos on the wall; the drawings that each of them had done as children framed in a clip-frame above Mary’s bureau; the tusks and knickknacks; Guy’s pipe in the corner of the room. Legacies of a life spent together crammed into this flat for one person.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t seen you for ages,’ she said awkwardly, breaking the silence.

‘Me too,’ said Mary. ‘Well, you’re here now, darling.’

‘Don’t you want to know why I’m here?’

‘Of course I do, if you want to tell me,’ Mary said, lowering herself into the chair next to the sofa. She looked across at her granddaughter.

Laura clutched the wide base of her tumbler, feeling the ice cool her hand. She looked up, out of the window at the identical apartment building opposite, then down away towards where she had just been walking. Through the open window, the sun was shining, and the purr of early afternoon traffic sounded in the distance. From the balcony upstairs she could hear the sound of laughter.

‘Jasper and his boyfriend – they’ve just got back from Skye,’ Mary explained.

‘Right,’ said Laura, even then amused by the comings and goings of the inhabitants of Crecy Court.

Mary took another swig of her drink, and looked expectantly at her granddaughter. Laura shifted in her chair.

‘OK. Shoot,’ said Mary, who had a particular fondness for the early oeuvre of Clint Eastwood.

‘Well – I’ve messed everything up,’ Laura said calmly. ‘And I don’t know what to do.’

Mary leant forward in her chair, her earrings glinting in the sunlight.

‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,’ she said. ‘Now, my love, suppose you tell me about it, and we’ll see what we can do?’

‘It is bad,’ said Laura. ‘The worst.’

‘Well, you’re still alive, I’m still alive. I got a postcard from Simon in some small village in Peru today, so clearly he is still alive, and when I spoke to your mother an hour ago she and your father were still alive, so that’s not true, is it, darling? Come on,’ she said, crossing her capri-pant-clad legs. ‘I’ll just sit here, and you tell me in your own time, how about that?’

So Laura told her grandmother absolutely everything, safe in the knowledge Mary wouldn’t judge her or frown or be shocked. As she finished, culminating in the dinner at the Newman Pie Rooms, the retreat to the bedroom, and the pigeon, there were tears running down her cheeks again.

‘I’m sorry,’ Laura said, trying to breathe properly. ‘I just…god.’

Mary smiled at her granddaughter. She put her smooth brown hand under Laura’s chin, and wiped away a tear with her thumb.

‘My darling girl,’ she said. ‘Stop crying. Stop it. From what you tell me I imagine you have had the luckiest of escapes. Now, dry your eyes, and sit still, and I’ll get you another drink. It’s over now, don’t you see? Isn’t that wonderful?’