Page 22 of The Woman Who Said Yes

‘Not really,’ Sam admits.

‘I keep thinking, what would Eva think, if she knew?’

‘Yeah, me too.’ As if to signify that they’ve taken this far enough, Sam closes his laptop and gets up. ‘I guess it’s up to Eva how she chooses to live her life,’ he adds. Then, hoping Andie doesn’t have to dash off, ‘Fancy another coffee? I know your visitors are coming…’ Her dad and Trudy, he means – his new wife – at which Andie pulls a terrified face.

‘Yeah, but not until later. So, yes please.’

Sam refills her mug from the ancient but still perfectly serviceable percolator. It’s another appliance that Theo seems to have taken against. Since his best friend’s family took possession of a multi-knobbed ‘proper coffee machine’, as he terms it, he’s regarded percolated beverages as if they have been strained through the gusset of a pair of soiled underpants.

‘I don’t think we’re going to find anything useful,’ Sam muses. ‘And even if we did, what would we do with that information?’

‘We can’t do anything,’ Andie says firmly. ‘Whatever we think of him, the wedding’s going ahead.’

‘Yeah, you’re right.’ Sam sits back beside her at the kitchen table, willing this Sunday morning to feel more normal – as if there were no Dom, no wedding, no shimmering sense that something isn’t right. ‘Let’s just forget it,’ he adds firmly. But as the words leave his mouth, even Al Green’s velvety tones drifting from the radio are failing to soothe him. And Sam cannot shift the sense of dread slowly solidifying in his chest.

12

ANDIE

‘Wow!’ Trudy exclaims. ‘That’s a very brave dress.’

‘Is it? Um… thanks!’ In panic, I look down to check that my simple navy shift hasn’t reconfigured to expose my tits or turned entirely see-through, like that cheap swimsuit I wore to a family holiday in Tenerife. (‘Mum! Muuuum!’ shrieked seven-year-old Jake, rushing to my aid with a giant towel).

Dad and his glamorous, extravagantly coiffed wife have just arrived from our Yorkshire home town, en route to Gatwick for their flight to Malta tomorrow. Her zingy pink nails look freshly gelled and her hair resembles an unyielding meringue, sprayed copper. They are staying with me, in my little flat which Trudy describes as ‘way, way out’ – as if we’re talking the Siberian wastelands and not a two-minute walk from Hackney Central.

Laden with their jackets and suitcases, I escape momentarily to my spare room where they’ll be sleeping tonight. ‘Let me help you with those, Andie,’ Dad offered, but I waved him off, as I still need to figure out what Trudy meant about my dress. Because in this context, brave isn’t a positive term. It’s one of those good-words-turned-bad, like ‘different’, as applied to my Bake-Off Day blondies. And by ‘brave’, what Trudy actually means is ‘tarty’, in ancient language – flashing, as I am, two millimetres of leg above the knee. But definitely not my boobs or arse, even when I bend over fully, just to check that it doesn’t ride up.

Satisfied that I could be dressed for a court appearance, I park their suitcases and hang up Dad’s clearly newly purchased sand-coloured sports jacket and Trudy’s quilted blouson with the fluffy leopard collar. Then, taking a huge, fortifying breath, I go through to join my guests.

I’m genuinely delighted that Dad has found love and happiness again after Mum’s long and heart-wrenching decline. Her dementia had robbed him of the devoted and highly capable wife she’d once been, and he’d cared for her at home as best as he could, for as long as possible. It had crushed my heart to see that he’d bulk-bought cans of condensed mushroom soup and that the fridge was entirely packed with bottles of lemonade (she’d developed an insatiable craving for fizzy drinks).

I cried when Dad told me that the way to wash her hair without frightening her was to play her favourite record – ‘Wooden Heart’ by Elvis – while it was happening. ‘It’s only two minutes and three seconds long,’ he said wearily. I went up to stay as much as I could but eventually, it all got too much for Dad, and Mum moved into a care home and passed away peacefully, with Dad and me at her bedside.

It was horrendous, all of it. So it’s wonderful to see him all spruced up and rejuvenated now. At eighty-three, he is often nattily accessorised with a silky scarf knotted at his neck, and is clearly loving life. As Trudy – a decade younger than Dad, all bronzer-dusted and fully made-up at all times – has been the key to this, I can handle her dashed-off remarks. But still, it’s quite something this talent she has for conveying that she thinks something is shit without actually saying it.

For this reason, knowing I’d be out at Sam’s this morning, I was up last night until 1.30 a.m. prepping for their arrival. This involved making up the spare bed with the quality linen I’d bought after their last visit when, suddenly, I’d viewed my existing, faded duvet cover through Trudy’s discerning eyes. Then it was onto a forensic deep-clean, as if Hackney Council might be conducting a health and safety inspection, and a futile attempt to fix my wobbly loo seat.

Finally I dug out those properly grown-up items which never see the light of day normally. Proper napkins, place mats and a tablecloth are all expected by Trudy as if every meal were a Lady Mayoress’s tea party. And this is only for a single night’s visit! On their return from Malta they’re staying with me for a week. ‘Trudy thought it’d be fun to extend our holiday,’ Dad announced. How am I going to prep for that? I swear that Trudy possesses some kind of superhuman power to make things appear that weren’t there before: a smear of butter on the fridge door, a chunk of pizza crust poking out from under the cooker. Oops, I’ll just get that for you, Andie! Which is code for, I’m trying to make this cesspit habitable.

No special preparations were required whenever Mum and Dad came to stay. Phil and I were still together then, and my parents would lounge around our little terraced house, with Mum dropping toast crumbs onto her bosom-shelf and sipping countless cups of tea. Same when I bought this place – at least, when Mum had recovered from the shock of my marriage break-up. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right here, all on your own at this time in your life?’

I was fifty-two! Still capable of washing myself and boiling pasta without having a carer present. No, Mum, I wouldn’t be persuading Jake, who’d landed a teaching job in Bristol straight after graduation, to move in with me. Nor Marnie, who’d already established her scientific career and an independent life in south London. ‘Of course I’ll be all right, Mum,’ I insisted. ‘I love this place.’

Her face had creased with worry. ‘But… is it secure?’ As if, up until recently, my husband had been my great protector!

After Mum died, it had taken me a while to persuade Dad that he and I could still enjoy time together in London. Understandably, he was living a pretty reclusive life. But at some point, a gregarious amateur dramatics enthusiast took to showing up with pies and crumbles and invitations to visit nearby stately homes.

‘So many crumbles!’ a neighbour told me with a wry smile when I was on a visit home. ‘With her own home-grown rhubarb.’ A wink then, and a chuckle. ‘Trudy’s always boasting that she has a lovely patch.’

Dad had known widowed Trudy for many years as she lived in the same street. Although she claimed to have been a great friend of Mum’s, I knew Mum had found her intimidating (‘Very glamorous, that Trudy Webster!’). However, at some point, my lonely father, who was now about 85 per cent crumble, found himself not only with a National Trust card but a permanently tanned girlfriend who wore fuchsia lipstick to take out the bins. Dear Dad, who’d never been into ‘big fancy houses’, was now sporting pastel V-necked sweaters and posing for photos next to cannons and topiarised shrubs.

For dinner tonight I’ve cooked what I regard as a fail-safe roast chicken. While Trudy doesn’t quite say it’s like gnawing on an ancient horsehair mattress, she does remark, ‘Hmm, lovely. But I always do a gravy with my roasts, don’t I, Ronnie?’

When I’ve cleared up after my gravyless dinner, sloshing the front of my brave dress with washing-up suds, I rejoin them in the living room to find a large rectangular parcel sitting expectantly on my coffee table. ‘What’s this?’ I ask. They must have fetched it from one of their suitcases.

Dad smiles expectantly, looking at Trudy for confirmation. ‘Just something we thought you’d like, love. A little thank you for having us to stay.’

‘Oh, really? That’s so kind!’ The kernel of annoyance still lurking over my apparently withered chicken dissolves in a rush of guilt. ‘But you needn’t have,’ I add, unknotting the satin ribbon and peeling away the wrapping paper with care.