parties and went on dates. With these I kept in mind my mother’s old-fashioned precepts: ‘Wait before returning their calls,’ she’d often say. ‘Make them think you’re too busy to see them. Never, ever throw yourself at them, Anna. Try and retain a little “feminine mystique”.’ I’d groan at all this, but she’d retort that there was a little dance of courtship that needed to be danced and that it was her duty to give me ‘womanly’ advice.
‘All mothers should,’ she once said with a vehemence that took me aback. ‘My mother never told me anything,’ she’d added bitterly. ‘She was too embarrassed. But I wish she had done, because it meant I was hopelessly unworldly.’
Which probably explains why she married Dad when she was twenty.
‘It was a whirlwind romance,’ she’d say coyly whenever the subject came up.
I’d discreetly roll my eyes, because I’ve always known the truth.
‘A tornado,’ Dad would add with a wry smile. They’d gone up the aisle two months after meeting at the Lyons Corner House on The Strand.
‘It was raining,’ Mum would say, ‘so the café was full. Suddenly this divine-looking man came up to me and asked if he could share my table – and that was that!’
But it used to amuse me that my mother, whose own romantic life had been so happily uneventful, should seem so anxious to educate me about affairs of the heart.
The men I dated were all attractive, clever and charming, and would have been ‘husband material’, were it not that they all seemed to have major drawbacks of one sort or another. Duncan, for example, was a successful stockbroker – intelligent and likeable – but his enthusiasm for lap-dancing clubs was a problem for me; then there was Gavin who was still getting over his divorce. After that I dated Henry, an advertising copywriter, who avoided traffic jams by driving on the pavement. The second time he was cautioned I called it a day. Then I met Tony, a publisher, at a wedding in Wiltshire. Tony was clever and fun. But when after six months he said that he didn’t want anything long-term I ended it. I couldn’t afford to waste my time.
‘You’ve still got ages, darling,’ my mother had said consolingly afterwards. We were sitting on the garden bench in Oxted, under the pear tree. It was her birthday, the tenth of May. She put her arm round me, wrapping me in the scent of the Shalimar I’d given her that morning. ‘You’re only thirty-two, Anna,’ I heard her say. My eyes strayed to the little blue clouds of forget-me-nots floating in the flowerbeds. ‘Thirty-two’s still young. And women have their children much later now – thank goodness.’
I suddenly asked her something I’d always wanted to know: ‘If you could have your time again, Mum, would you have waited longer before starting a family?’ She’d had Mark when she was just twenty-one.
‘Well …’ she’d said, blushing slightly, ‘I … don’t think having a child is ever a mistake.’ Which wasn’t what I’d meant. ‘But yes, I did start very early,’ she’d gone on, ‘so I never really worked – unlike you. But you’re lucky, Anna, because you’re of the generation that can have a fulfilling career, fun and independence, and then the happiness of family life. And you’re not to worry about finding that,’ she repeated, stroking my hair. ‘Because you’ve still got lots of time.’
Which was something that she herself didn’t have, it seemed, because less than a month later she’d died.
Now, as I turned on to the motorway I remembered – as I often do when I’m driving and my mind can range – that awful, awful time. I was so shocked I could barely breathe. It was as though the Pause button had been pressed on my life. What would I do without my mother? I felt as though I’d been pushed off a cliff.
And what if I only had twenty-three years left, I had then begun to wonder, as I lay staring into the darkness, night after night. What if I only had ten years left, or five, or one? Because I now understood, in a way I could never have grasped before, how our lives all hang by a thread.
I had a fortnight’s compassionate leave, which I needed, as I had to organise the funeral as Dad could barely function. Going back to work after that was a relief in some ways – though I remember it as a very strange time. My colleagues were kind and sympathetic to begin with, but as time went on, naturally, they stopped asking me how I was, as though it was expected that life should now carry on as normal. Except that nothing seemed ‘normal’ any more. And as the weeks went by I felt increasingly dissatisfied with the life I’d been leading – the fact-finding about investment opportunities that were of zero interest to me – the number-crunching and the daily commute. I now ‘analysed the fundamentals’ of my own existence and realised that the goals I’d striven to achieve seemed trivial. So I made a decision to change my life.
I’d often daydreamed about giving up the rat race and becoming a garden designer. I could never go to someone’s house without imagining how their garden would look if it were landscaped differently or planted more imaginatively. I’d already designed a couple of gardens as a favour – a Mediterranean courtyard for my PA, Sue, at her house in Kent; and a cottage garden for an elderly couple over the road. They’d been delighted with its billowing mass of hollyhocks and foxgloves, and doing it had given me a huge buzz.
So I signed up for a year’s diploma course at the London School of Gardening in Chelsea. Then I went to see my boss, Miles.
‘Are you quite certain?’ he asked as I sat in his office, heart pounding at the thought of the security – and the camaraderie – I was about to sacrifice. He rotated his gold fountain pen between his first and second fingers. ‘You’ll be giving up a lot, Anna – not least the chance of a directorship in maybe two or three years.’ I had a sudden vision of my name on the thick vellum company stationery. ‘Don’t think I’m trying to dissuade you,’ Miles went on, ‘but are you sure you want to do this?’ I glanced out of the window. A plane was making its way across the cobalt sky, leaving a bright, snowy contrail. ‘You’ve been through a lot lately,’ I heard him say. ‘Could it just be a reaction to your mother’s death?’
‘Yes,’ I replied quietly. ‘That’s exactly what it is. Which is why I am sure I want to do it – thanks.’
I worked out my notice; then, in early September Miles gave me a leaving party in the boardroom. Seeing the big turnout, I was glad I’d put on my most glamorous Prada suit – I’d been thrilled because I’d got it half price – and my beloved Jimmy Choos. I wouldn’t be wearing these heels for a long time, I thought, as I circulated. I wouldn’t be buying any more either – I’d have zero income for the next year. Nor would I be drinking champagne, I thought, as I sipped my third, nerve-steadying glass of fizz.
Suddenly Miles chinked his glass, then ran his hand through his blond curls – he looked like an overgrown cherub. ‘Can I have everyone’s attention?’ he said, as the hubbub subsided. ‘Because I’d just like to embarrass Anna for a moment.’ A sudden warmth suffused my face. Miles flipped out his yellow silk tie. ‘Anna – this is a very sad day for all of us here at Arden Fund Management – for the simple reason that you’ve been a dream colleague.’
‘And a dream boss!’ I heard Sue say. I smiled at her. ‘I’m regretting egging you on to do this gardening lark now!’
‘You’ve been a real team player,’ Miles went on. ‘Your meticulous research has helped us do our jobs with so much more confidence. You’ve dug away painstakingly on our behalf. And now you’re set to do spadework of a different kind.’ I smiled. ‘Anna, we’re going to miss you more than we can say. But we wish you every success and happiness in
