evasive with her mother was one thing. With Cat, it was unthinkable.
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No more Casey. But it’s all fine – bless him.’ She was rattling off the words like a mantra. ‘Moving back here is the best thing I could do for him too. I mean, I know the United States is huge – but there’s space and then there’s distance. Sometimes, you need more than merely miles to move on. Sometimes you need time zones.’
‘And you’re OK?’ Cat pressed, because Oriana’s voice had been expressionless. ‘Really OK?’
‘I am dandy.’ But still Cat was regarding her. ‘We’d come to the end. It was my call.’
‘When?’
‘A while back,’ said Oriana. ‘Well, three, four months.’
‘Poor Casey though, having left his—’
‘I need a glass of water, a cup of tea.’ Oriana had both in front of her but her mouth was suddenly dry. If Cat could just leave the topic while she went to fetch a drink. ‘Want anything?’
‘More space!’ The baby was wedged under her ribs. ‘How’s your ma?’
‘Suburban,’ Oriana said, returning. ‘You wouldn’t believe it.’
Cat shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen her for years. No one has. I still find it bizarre – how she traded one life for another so diametrically opposed. How is Boring Bernard?’
Oriana flinched at the moniker they’d given him as teenagers. ‘Do you know, he’s just – normal.’
Cat thought about it. ‘I suppose we confused normal with boring.’
‘That’s because both of you grew up not really knowing any normal people,’ said Django, suddenly appearing with a wooden spoon that appeared to be covered in sweet-smelling tar. ‘Which was a blessing and a curse. For my part, I apologize. Come on, lunch.’
The kitchen. How she’d always loved the McCabes’ kitchen. Despite the size of her own childhood home, Oriana’s family kitchen had been pokey. And it had been underused. As unconventional as the McCabes’ household had been – three young girls living with their eccentric uncle – it had always felt fundamentally stable to Oriana. And Django – as bonkers and outspoken as he was, he always put food on the table. The ingredients were peculiar, but mealtimes were sacred; they sat down as a family to eat. Throughout her life, she’d often arrived there hungry and wanting. And she’d always left nourished.
‘Is that cannabis?’ said Oriana.
‘No – but I used quite a lot of oregano. And a splash of Henderson’s Relish.’
‘Not in the dish,’ said Oriana, ‘there. On your windowsill.’
They all regarded the plants. Cat rolled her eyes.
‘Medicinal,’ Django defended himself. ‘Your husband’s the doctor, Catriona – he’s done research.’
‘You could get busted!’ Oriana said.
‘I am busted,’ said Django. ‘I have cancer. Prostrate.’
‘Prostate,’ said Cat quietly.
‘It’s very slow growing,’ said Django rather proudly. He tapped at the bowls in front of them. ‘Now look – eat up. I’ve been experimenting. If Tabasco is hot enough to blow your socks off, just imagine what it can do to cancer cells. They thought I was a goner. I’ve proved them wrong.’
This was a home where discordance was joyful, where love and hope provided the bedrock for whatever was dumped on top. Oriana felt more settled than at any other time since her return.
‘And will you be visiting Robin now you’re back?’
‘Unlikely,’ Oriana said.
‘So why did you return?’ Django pushed.
‘Sorry,’ Cat said to Oriana, under her breath. But it was fine.
‘It was time.’ She shrugged, paused, continued quietly. ‘Some things came to an end. Job. Lease. Other stuff.’
Django liked her ambivalence. He wasn’t very good at ambivalence and he admired it in others.
‘Can’t be easy, living where you’re living.’
Oriana shrugged. ‘It isn’t.’
‘Seconds,’ said Django and it wasn’t a question. He gathered the bowls and took them back into the kitchen to refill. Cat excused herself and disappeared upstairs.
Alone at the table, Oriana thought about her mother. She didn’t doubt that the woman cared about her, in her own way which could be detached and could be dramatic and was always self-centred. But she knew and her mother knew that the Hathersage house was no place for her.
‘Here.’ Cat returned with the local paper. ‘Just look at this.’
An apartment at Windward was up for sale.
‘That’s the last place on earth I’d live,’ said Oriana.
‘You couldn’t afford it anyway – they go for a fortune, these days.’
They peered at the pictures which, though in colour, were grainy. The main one was of the house – obviously taken during the summer months. There were four smaller photographs of interiors. Oriana considered them for some time.
‘I’m not even sure which one this is,’ Oriana said. ‘No one had a hi-tech kitchen like that when I was there.’
‘It’s Louis’, isn’t it?’ said Django, back.
‘Is it?’ said Oriana, grieving for Louis anew.
‘Look.’ He jabbed a finger at the final photo. ‘Where’s that then?’
The girls looked.
‘The oriel windows,’ Oriana said, ‘right at the top. But it can’t be Louis’.’
They read the details.
‘How on earth did they make three bedrooms out of his apartment?’ Oriana read on. ‘Two bathrooms, one en suite?’ She looked up at Cat and Django. ‘I loved it when it was Louis’. It was my place of choice for tea. It was always so genteel.’
Django laughed. ‘Fabulous old queen.’
Oriana turned to Cat. ‘Do you remember – after school – going for toast and to do homework at his kitchen table because it was so much quieter than downstairs?’
Cat looked at the details anew. ‘I can’t believe that this is Louis’ place. And yes, of course I remember.’
‘I
