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‘You came,’ she says, smiling. She looks beautiful – polished yet understated in a deep grey linen maxi dress and designer flip-flops, her toenails professionally painted with coral varnish. Her grey hair is pushed back from her face in a chic French style.
‘Jen, hi,’ I say with relief.
She reaches out, not for the baby or my bag but for my hand. She holds it and keeps holding it after she has bent to kiss my cheek. She smells lovely – the fresh green smell I associate with her.
Another moment and she lets my hand fall but, as if conscious of even the smallest abandonment, keeps one hand light against my upper arm and asks if I’d like a drink.
‘Matt brought a bottle of champagne.’ I peer ahead into what looks like a gargantuan open kitchen area.
‘Well, that’s very naughty and very kind, but I’m asking if you want a drink, not if you brought your own.’ Her dry delivery and soft Irish accent make her sound mischievous. ‘I’m guessing you might need one.’ She meets my gaze full-on. In her eyes there is nothing but the same kindness of this past year, of last week’s visit. And more. Recognition. I see you, and I will not look away.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘A drink sounds good.’
‘Do you trust me to bring you something delicious and alcoholic?’ Her hand is still on my arm. Normally this would be starting to make me feel crowded, but somehow it doesn’t.
‘I’m still breastfeeding.’
She eyes the baby a moment and smiles. ‘He’s what, three months?’
‘Almost.’
‘One stiff drink won’t do him any harm, and it’ll take the edge off for you. I had a Guinness a day when mine were little. Generations of Gilmartins swear by the stout.’ The last few words carry a stronger Irish lilt.
‘Gilmartin?’
‘My maiden name. I changed it when I got married, which is either old-fashioned or post-feminist, I’m not sure, but frankly I couldn’t pass up on Lovegood, could I? Imagine that in court. Plus, I knew it would drive my parents mad. They hate anything pretentious, which is half the reason we landed our girls with outrageously middle-class names. Now, come with me and let me book you into the comfiest chair in the house.’ She links my arm and leads me towards what I assume is the living room. ‘This was the only room I was allowed to style, by the way, but honestly, you can’t sit on anything Johnnie’s chosen – it’s all design over comfort, I’m afraid. Still, what Johnnie wants…’ She laughs and rolls her eyes.
What Johnnie wants… but I don’t pick up on anything coercive. If anything, Jen appears to regard her husband as a kind of man-child who requires a wry smile and a lot of indulgence, and again I kick myself for finding him so irritating when he can’t help it.
Jen guides me through the door, to a dove-grey room that flickers in the light of a log fire. The last day of August, but the room isn’t too hot, just cosy. Perfect. There are tasteful pictures all over the walls and amber fairy lights coiled in great glass cylinders and interesting pieces that I guess I’d have to callobjetsrather than ornaments.
‘Sit here.’ She gestures to a vintage leather sofa covered in soft wool blankets.
‘It’s so lovely in here.’
‘Johnnie hates it.’ She gives a brief laugh. ‘Hates throws, hates fairy lights, hates the fire. Hates anything that isn’t a clean line.’
‘Really? Oh no! But it’s so welcoming and lovely.’ The sofa is soft. Fred emits one of his little baby groans and my breasts harden in response. One advantage of the papoose is that it will hide any wet marks on the front of my dress.
‘Comfy?’
‘God, yes, this sofa is heaven.’
There is no one else here, and for the first time this evening, as I sink into those cushions, I feel my stomach muscles unclench. I could stay here all evening. Could I stay here all evening?
‘The throws are cashmere,’ Jen says. ‘Yikes, eh? Now, don’t move. I’ll be two seconds.’
And she really is, returning a moment later, though without drinks.
‘Two caipirinhas are on their way.’
I am aware of my mouth, of the strangeness of a smile on it.
‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ she says, with her customary disarming frankness, sitting beside me and picking a cream piece of fluff from her linen-draped thigh. ‘I worried that by calling round and telling you not to worry about coming I’d made you feel even more obliged, and I’m guessing you need that kind of pressure like a feckin’ hole in the head.’
‘I didn’t want to come.’ The words are out before I’ve censored them, but she doesn’t flinch.
‘I’m not surprised. But you can stay in here all evening if you want, or walk out right now; like I said, you won’t offend me or Johnnie, and we don’t matter anyway and nor does anyone else. You don’t have to think about anything other than what you want to do.’
