to moving back home, that my being here might help Mum, and help me too in a funny way. I thought it might take my mind off my own misery. But she barely acknowledges me, and I’m not sure if I’m making any difference. I mean, I get how she feels. I’ve had my fair share of heartache and I’m no stranger to being dumped and cheated on (Jo said there’s no one else, but I’m not sure I believe her. But that might be my insecurity talking). Finding out your husband of over forty years has been cheating must be horrendous. But I hadn’t expected this. This shadow of a person, not moving, inert, just accepting her fate. The Mum I know would never give up like this. Why can’t she be angry any more, the way Beth and I are? It’s like all the fight’s gone out of her.
I want to shake her and say, Do something. Fight for him. But she doesn’t. Beth thinks she needs time, but I’m not sure my sister realises how bad the situation is. Sam and Megan, of course, think it’s hilarious that Grandpa could even be having an affair. The idea of seventy-somethings having a sex life is completely incomprehensible to them. But this is serious. Mum and Dad have had their ups and downs, but they’ve always been together. And the situation is further complicated by the fact that Dad seems to be spending a lot of time with this Lilian woman, but he still hasn’t officially left Mum’s house. He’s sleeping in the spare room and sneaking out to see her every day. He never says where he’s going, or what his plans are. Presumably because the first time I asked him about it we had a stand-up row; it was horrible. Dad isn’t the rowing sort, and since then he’s refused to discuss the situation with me.
I don’t know what to do. I’ve spent my whole life being regarded as the pathetic one in the family: poor Lou stuffed up her A Levels, poor Lou can’t get a decent job, poor Lou hasn’t got a man – and now here I am having to act like the responsible one. I really haven’t the faintest idea how to do it.
‘I was thinking more on the lines of a cup of tea?’ I say as cheerfully as I can, but Mum looks at me blankly.
‘I suppose,’ she says. Her eyes look dull and lifeless. It’s a bit scary how quickly my energetic mum has morphed into a zombie. She’s barely been out of the house since Christmas, and I keep being bombarded with messages from her friends, checking up on her because she refuses to speak to them.
‘How about we go out for a coffee at the garden centre?’ I say.
I’d like to suggest going shopping, but I know I’ll get nowhere with that. I’ve been doing the shopping for the last two weeks, Dad being incapable of doing any domestic tasks. Lucky Lilian.
‘What’s the point?’ says Mum.
‘The point,’ I say firmly, ‘is you need to get out of the house. Trust me, I know.’
I think of all the times people have done this for me, stopped me drowning in self-pity when all I wanted to do was sit in my PJs eating chocolate and drinking too much wine. I’ve only coped this time because Mum needs me so much I haven’t had time to wallow in it. But when I’ve been heartbroken in the past, I’ve always been lucky enough to have someone there to kick me into shape and get me out of my despondency. I know it works.
‘So come on,’ I say. ‘Time to have a bath and pull yourself together. Dad’s never going to take you back if you wander round looking like a wet weekend in November.’
‘Don’t be rude,’ says Mum, with a flash of her old self, which gives me some hope. Slowly but surely, she does start to get ready.
First steps, but maybe I’m getting there …
Beth
I’m on a train to London to meet my new editor, Vanessa, in person for the first time. Normally I enjoy my trips to see my publishers. It’s always been a chance to catch up with Karen, talk shop and thrash out new ideas – it’s creative, energising and fun. Plus it gets me out of the house.
But today is different. If Karen were still around, I’d at least be able to discuss things, but I barely know Vanessa. I’ve been trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but so far have found her to be annoyingly patronising, and often quite rude. I know I should be open-minded but I’m finding it increasingly difficult to take suggestions from a woman young enough to be my daughter, who always approaches every conversation as if I’m a problem that needs solving and keeps saying things like, ‘Well, it’s not that I don’t like it, exactly, it’s just there’s a spark missing.’
I know there’s a spark missing. She’s the editor, I was rather hoping she’d help me find it, but her latest solution to send my little angel on a journey round the whole world feels overcomplicated to me. ‘It’ll help give it that international feel that’s so vital to the picture-book market,’ she gushed down the phone last week.
‘Yeah, I know how it works,’ I said, biting my lip. I’ve been doing this for twenty years, and I understand the importance of foreign editions; they help increase the print run and bring down the production costs. Without them, it’s much harder to get a book off the ground. One or two of my early projects foundered as a result of too few foreign publishers coming on board. I don’t need Vanessa to lecture me on how important it is. I feel she’s treating me like an idiot, and it’s making me resent her even more.
Anyway, whatever I’m doing isn’t working, so I found myself agreeing to take my angel on a journey that involves London, Paris, New York, Berlin and Rome, even though apart from Rome none of these places even existed in Jesus’ time.
When I pointed this out, I was given an airy, ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter, it’s symbolic.’ Though of what, I’m not quite sure.
So I’ve done as she’s asked and drawn up some spreads of the Littlest Angel making friends with a pigeon on top of Nelson’s Column and asking the Mona Lisa for directions. In Berlin she’s getting a view of the city from the Reichstag, and in Rome she’s at the Vatican.
It doesn’t make any sense to me at all. Every time I draw the angel, I can’t seem to help myself giving her a puzzled and despairing look. It’s just how I feel. Though I know the book wasn’t working, I don’t think Vanessa’s solution is any better.
I get to the office in plenty of time for our meeting, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach. What am I doing? Why am I allowing my gut instincts to be overridden by someone like Vanessa? If only I had a clear view of my story I’d be able to fight back, but the trouble is, I don’t, and I know this book is going to end up being a disaster.
Vanessa doesn’t keep me waiting long. As I anticipated, she’s a pretty, bright young thing, all gushing enthusiasm. Suddenly it occurs to me that she might be as nervous as I am.
‘I just can’t believe I’m working with you, Beth,’ she says. ‘I loved your books when I was little.’
Great, now I feel really old, but then, my first picture book did come out seventeen years ago.
‘Thanks,’ I say, attempting a smile. It’s the first vaguely positive thing she’s said to me.
‘Come on in.’ She ushers me into a bright, airy room. ‘I’ve asked our new art director to join us, I hope that’s all right.’
‘I
