Page 77 of The Work Husband

‘No.’ I heard that rasping breath again. She sounded as if she was hyperventilating, and I began to worry. ‘I need to see you tonight.’

My anxiety dialled up a notch. There was no point asking her again what the problem was – she wanted to see me and that was that. If I argued, I’d end up feeling terrible about it and going anyway. And I’d feel particularly terrible if it turned out something bad had happened to her.

‘I’ll be there in about an hour,’ I said. ‘Sooner if I can.’

‘Be quick, Gigi.’ Her voice faded away as she ended the call.

Thoughts of my early night and relaxing bath forgotten, I turned and retraced my steps back to the station, taking one Tube line and then another until I eventually emerged at Mum’s stop. I rushed up the stairs to street level and hurried along the pavement, dodging slower pedestrians as I raced towards her flat.

Throughout the journey, possible scenarios had been turning over in my mind, each more worrying than the last. Mum had been diagnosed with some awful disease. Mum, her bones weakened from a lifetime of rigid dieting, had had a fall and was lying there in her flat, helpless and needing an ambulance. Mum had somehow lost all her savings, her flat was being repossessed and she was going to have to move in with me.

It made me feel even worse that this last possibility was the one that worried me the most.

I knocked on the door, dreading what I was about to see. But she opened it herself – she was upright; she didn’t look ill.

Just utterly distraught. Her make-up was smeared from crying. Her normally sleek hair was dishevelled as if she’d been raking her hands through it. There was a scarlet stain on the front of her top that I thought at first might be blood and only realised from the smell when I reached out to hug her was in fact nail polish.

‘I thought you weren’t coming!’ she accused. ‘I’ve been waiting and waiting.’

‘Mum,’ I reasoned. ‘You know how long it takes me to get here.’

‘I’m just fifteen minutes from Mayfair,’ she snapped, like I was an estate agent trying to argue down the asking price of her flat.

‘I wasn’t in Mayfair,’ I explained patiently. ‘I work there, but I was almost back at home.’

‘Why you thought it was a good idea to buy a property in Hackney I’ll never understand.’

Now that I was here, the vulnerability I’d sensed when she called me was gone, replaced with her familiar hardness. I felt the usual resentment filling in the space my ebbing concern had left.

‘Maybe we don’t argue about the most desirable area of London to live in, and you tell me what’s wrong?’ I suggested.

As if responding to a stage cue, she started crying again. ‘You’d better come in.’

I followed her into the flat. The normally tidy interior was littered with her belongings – opened packing boxes spewed their contents over the sofa; a suitcase lay on the floor, its lid gaping open to reveal a tangle of old clothes; the coffee table and dining table were covered with folders, envelopes and what looked like vintage magazines.

Where does she keep all this stuff normally? I wondered. The flat was small and as far as I could tell had limited storage, and I’d never thought of Mum as a hoarder.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked as gently as I could. ‘Are you moving? Do you need a hand sorting through all this? Because I’m not sure now’s the best time to start.’

‘Get me a drink, Gigi.’ Mum pushed a photo album off the sofa and onto the floor, where it fell open, and flopped down as if her legs could no longer support her. ‘There’s gin and tonic in the fridge.’

Obediently, I went through to the kitchen – which was immaculate as ever – and poured us both a drink. Apparently, she needed one, and, as I was pouring it, I realised I did too.

When I returned, she’d picked up the photograph album and now had it open on her lap. The pictures inside had faded with time, and some of them had come adrift from the pages, the glue that had held them dried out.

‘Look.’ She almost snatched the glass from me and took a long swallow, pushing the album from her knees to mine as I sat down.

The photograph had been blown up so it occupied an entire page – or would have done if it hadn’t been askew, held only by one corner so its edges extended beyond the borders of the album. It showed a man and a woman, arm in arm, beaming at the camera. Her dress was white lace, and a veil covered her hair. He was wearing a dark suit and had a carnation in his buttonhole.

It was the first time I’d ever seen a picture of my parents on their wedding day.

‘We were so happy,’ Mum went on. ‘So much in love. That frock was made for me. I had to get it let out at the last minute because – well, because of you. But still, your father said I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.’

‘You looked lovely,’ I said carefully. ‘He must have been very proud.’

‘The dress is in that suitcase.’ She pulled a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. ‘I used to dream of you wearing it one day. Before all the memories were tarnished.’

I’d never known the memories not to be tarnished – I’d never known that my parents even had fond memories of their wedding day. This was the first time the idea of me wearing the dress had ever come up – a relief because if it had, I’d have had to think of a way to tactfully refuse.