wants outbuildings and a view of the sea.
‘There’s so much to do, I’m holed up in one room.’ Which probably explains all those closed blinds and blank windows too.
‘Don’t worry.’ As I squeeze her arm I realise it’s a change to be the one doing the comforting. As I drag my bags and follow her inside, the sight of the kitchen makes my mouth drop open.
‘Let’s have some tea.’ As she fills the kettle she disappears against the riot of hydrangeas on the wallpaper. Only her feet, in first position in silver pumps, give away where she’s standing.
‘Someone liked flowers.’ It’s what’s known in the trade as migraine wallpaper.
She shakes her head. ‘The wallpaper was how we managed to buy it – most viewers didn’t get past the hall.’
‘I’ll get the milk.’ I’d make a grab for my tinted glasses but I don’t want to upset her, so I head for the soothing white of the fridge, hoping to find a sugar hit too. As I swing open the door I realise my double whammy mistake. Not only is there no milk; unless you go for colourless smoothies, nothing in there actually looks edible.
‘Will green tea be okay? It’s great for your yin and yang.’ The set of her mouth tells me this isn’t up for discussion. My mum does the same thing, but she’ll throw in a smile too. When I think about it, the joking around always came from Harry, but it’s a bit late to remember that now.
‘Have you gone low-fat?’
‘There’s a milkman. I’ll get him to call again now you’re here.’ She brushes an invisible crumb off her knee. ‘I’m actually eliminating this week.’
Which explains why the milkman lost the will to live. ‘That wrecks my plan to cheer us up with a fish supper.’
She pushes a steaming cup towards me. ‘I could take off the batter and you could have my chips.’
Chips. Of course. That’s what they’re called. So far I’ve reconnected with the words ‘chocolate’, ‘cake’ and ‘custard’ without difficulty. Now she’s reminded me, I’m feeling the gap where my stomach should be.
‘You’ve still got your car?’ Mum already checked. I know I’m here for the peace and quiet, but this would be a nightmare place to be stranded without one. If we zoom we could be down to the fish shop in no time.
‘It hasn’t been out for a while.’ The corners of her mouth dip even further. ‘But when we do get it started, you will do the driving?’
Shit. ‘Sorry, Aunty – Aunty …’
‘Josie.’
‘I’m not driving. That’s why I came in the Uber.’ Aunty Josie. I need to get that in my head. As for my licence, we’re all hoping I’ll get that back in a few months. Or maybe a bit longer. Which reminds me. ‘Does the man from down the lane bother you?’
Her nostrils flare. ‘It’s fine – the delivery drivers all know to leave the lane clear, I don’t often see him.’ Which is the best news yet.
Deliveries. The alarm bell clanging in my head is louder than the one outside. ‘When did you last go out?’ I watch her pull her top around her as she works it out.
‘I’ve been up to visit your mum every couple of months, you know that.’
‘But you do get dressed apart from that?’ She has to.
‘I never go without undies.’ She drags in a breath and sits up very straight. ‘Your mum and I both have a soft spot for Cath Kidston sleepwear. I expect you’re the same?’
‘You got navy and red stripes from Cath Kidston?’ Loungewear used to be my first choice, but lately pyjamas in the day make me feel too much like an invalid. And I might be confused, but I’m damn sure those stripes aren’t a colourway I ever saw in the Bath shop.
A flash of guilt crosses her face. ‘Actually these are Harry’s.’ Her hands are in the pockets and as she winds the jacket tight around her hips her nose goes up in defiance. ‘They’re warm. He had so many pairs I might as well get my wear out of them.’
‘Great.’ I’m sounding the kind of bright that goes with pretending that her wearing my dead uncle’s pyjamas is entirely expected and everyday normal. Considering it’s off-the-scale bonkers, I have to ask. ‘So, when did you last put your coat on and pop into St Aidan?’
‘It was the first meeting at Trenowden’s Solicitors, to deal with the will.’ She pauses and winds the wedding ring that’s loose on her finger. ‘George from there has been very good. Since then he’s brought things to me.’
‘But that has to be ages ago?’
‘Only a year and a bit.’ Her tone brightens. ‘You know what it’s like. Harry was the extrovert, I’m hardly going to go out on my own when I don’t know anyone.’
This is way worse than any of us thought.
She takes a sip of her tea. ‘Anyway, enough about me. You’re looking well.’
I don’t tell her how often I hear that, or how it makes me feel like a pretender every time. ‘I’ll show you my magic secret.’ I smile and whip out my make-up bag.
She comes in closer. ‘Laura Geller Balance-n-Brighten? How does that help with your brain?’
I can’t help laughing. ‘It’s not for my head, just for my cheeks.’ My make-up bag’s never been so full. When other parts let you down, how you look matters more. That’s another reason I’m welded to my pink and black dogtooth coat and my Audrey Hepburn slim tailored slacks.
‘You mean for contouring? I’ll have to try some of that.’ She gives a knowing nod. ‘I might not have bothered with proper clothes, but however bad I’ve felt, I’ve always put my face on.’
‘You didn’t run out of powder?’
She shakes her head. ‘You must have heard of Amazon Prime? It’s well worth the extra, they deliver all the way to the French windows in the day room.’
‘Is that where we’re going now?’ I dump my tea down the sink, then follow her into a space where the giant poppies and ferns furling between black bars on the wall make it feel like being locked in a cage in a hot-house.
She edges onto a cream linen sofa. ‘You’ll be used to lavish decor like this with your work?’
I didn’t ever work on the designs as such, but we never let our statement prints get out of control like they are here. How can I put it without being downright rude?
‘Our designs are … less in your face.’ Less likely to make you gasp for all the wrong reasons.
‘A crumbly cottage by the sea was Harry’s dream, not mine.’ Her frown drives the last of her lightness away. ‘I’d swap back to my Harpenden Tudor in a heartbeat if only I could.’
That was nineties mock, not fifteenth century Elizabethan, and Dad insisted the half-timbering was plastic. But the staircase scored a ten on the Cinderella
