Joanna Trollope - Second Honeymoon

‘I tried that’.

Ben gave him a quick look.

‘What did she say?’

‘She said she wanted me to come too. To this flat. She wants this flat’.

‘Well then’.

‘But I can’t. And she knows I can’t’.

‘So you’re making her choose—’

‘No,’ Matthew said, ‘I’m setting her free to choose’.

Ben stared ahead.

Then he said, ‘I’m sorry’.

‘Thanks’.

‘Will you tell the parents?’

‘I’ll have to’.

‘Why have to—’ Matthew looked down.

He said, almost bitterly, ‘I may need a bit of help. For a while’.

Ben adjusted his gaze from the distance to his beer. This was the moment, if he was going to take it, to tell Matthew that Rosa had already asked for help from their father, and been, however reasonably, turned down. But it occurred to Ben that Matthew wasn’t like Rosa and that, in any case, his older brother and sister had to do things their own way, fight their own battles. If he mentioned Rosa, it might just be one more depressing thing for Matthew to have to factor in, one more difficulty in an already difficult situation.

He picked his bottle up again.

‘Talk to Mum’.

Matthew turned to look at him.

‘Really? I was going to talk to Dad’.

Ben shook his head. He was conscious of feeling something he had never felt in his life before, a sensation of not just, at last, being the same age as his brother but also, headily, almost older. He put an arm briefly across Matthew’s shoulders.

‘No. Talk to Mum,’ Ben said. ‘Trust me’.

Barney reached across Kate to buckle her car seat belt. She put a hand out. ‘I can do it—’

‘I like doing it,’ Barney said. ‘My wanting to will probably wear off, so I should enjoy it while you can’. He pushed the buckle home. ‘You look better’.

‘I feel,’ Kate said, ‘marginally less awful. Marginally’.

Barney turned the ignition key.

‘Or you are relieved to be getting away from the flat for the weekend’.

Kate turned her head away.

‘Kate?’

‘Can’t hear you’.

‘Yes, you can. Even the prospect of being a daughter-in-law for forty-eight hours is better than trying to pretend that having Rosa in the flat isn’t like trying to manoeuvre round an agitated double bed all the time’.

Kate said nothing.

‘You were in her room,’ said Barney, pulling the car out into the street, ‘until one o’clock this morning’.

‘She was miserable—’

‘And then you can’t sleep so you’re miserable and then I’m miserable’. Kate beat lightly on her thighs with her fists. ‘Barney, we have had this conversation’. ‘But then nothing happens’. ‘It does. She’s got a job’. ‘Temping’.

‘It’s a job. She’s going to give us some rent’. ‘How much?’

‘Don’t be so completely vile’.

Barney waited until he had negotiated a small roundabout, and then he said, ‘OK. That was out of order. Sorry. But we wouldn’t be having this conversation, and I wouldn’t be saying things like that, if it wasn’t for Rosa’.

‘I know’.

‘The thing is, she doesn’t know how not to be a huge presence. She’s somehow all over the flat even when she’s in her room with the door shut’.

‘Barney,’ Kate said, looking straight ahead, ‘there are two weeks to go’.

‘And then?’

Kate said nothing.

Barney took a hand off the steering wheel and put it on one of Kate’s.

He said, more gently, ‘And then?’ ‘I don’t know’. ‘Promise me something’.

‘Oh—’

‘Promise me you won’t ask her to stay longer’.

Kate said, ‘I’ll try—’ ‘No’.

‘Barney—’

‘If you do,’ Barney said, ‘I’ll un-ask her. Not for my sake particularly but for yours. And ours’.

Kate put her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

‘I just feel we’ve got so much—’ ‘Look,’ Barney said. ‘Look. Whatever we’ve got we’ve made ourselves. We haven’t taken something of Rosa’s’. Kate began, very quietly, to cry. Barney glanced at her.

‘Oh darling—’ ‘It’s nothing—’

He pulled the car quickly into the side of the road and put his arms clumsily round her.

‘Oh darling, don’t cry, I’m so sorry, don’t cry. Oh

Kate—’

‘It’s not you,’ Kate said unsteadily. ‘It’s me. And probably this baby’.

Barney loosened his arms and slid down until his cheek and ear were resting against Kate’s stomach.

‘This baby’.

Kate sniffed. She looked down, at Barney’s head in her lap, at his hair, his hand on her thigh.

She said, ‘It’s OK. I’ll tell her. If she doesn’t know already—’

‘She’s not a fool—’

‘No,’ Kate said. She blotted her eyes on her sleeve. ‘No, she’s not. That’s part of the trouble’.

* * *

Cleaning, Rosa thought, hunting for rubber gloves under Kate’s sink, wasn’t something she had exactly been brought up to do. Edie had been very strict about helping, had made sure that everyone – with the frequent exception of Ben – realised that the task of keeping a house going was a communal responsibility and that, just because she was the mother, it didn’t automatically follow that she was also unpaid room service. But Edie was not the kind of woman for whom crushed cushions and unscaled kettles represented the first signs of domestic anarchy; washing the kitchen floor was never, for her, going to take priority over helping Matthew make a model or dancing with Rosa in front of the landing mirror. It was only staying over in schoolfriends’ houses that had revealed to Rosa that people – some people – bought vacuum cleaners for their efficiency and not solely because they had a jolly little face painted on the cylinder. Nothing she saw, no amount of gleaming bathrooms, made her feel Edie’s attitude was wrong, but she did begin to see that the relief to be found in the small satisfactions of cleaning was very real and weirdly reliable. It was, in the end, living with Josh that had driven her to find the solid, if unglamorous, consolations of exercising control where you still could, in creating domestic order.

It was her intention, that Saturday, to create exactly that order in Kate and Barney’s flat. It was partly that she might find personal solace in burnishing surfaces and straightening rugs, but also because she might gain a form of unspoken forgiveness from Barney, in particular, and even – this was a long shot but desperate situations required desperate measures – prepare the way to asking if her month in the flat might be extended into two. She was keenly aware that she had not behaved well in the past fortnight, that she had conducted herself with the sort of sulky resentment associated with disaffected fourteen-year-olds, and that it looked to Kate as if she was motivated by no more than the most primitive and unattractive of envies.

If she was honest, she thought, spraying cleaning fluid lavishly across the kitchen surfaces, she was envious of Kate. Not envious of Kate having Barney, but envious of Kate and Barney wanting to be together, and having the unspeakable luxury of a future to look forward to. At the same time, however, she knew that this kind of envy was a bitter, destructive thing, as well as a disgrace in any commendable personality. And even, Rosa thought, scrubbing at a stain, if my personality is not commendable, and certainly hasn’t been recently, I would like it to be; I would like it, really, to be in charge of itself.

She straightened up. A pleasing sort of calm was beginning to overtake the kitchen. She thought of extending her efforts to the contents of the cupboards and then it occurred to her that to move so much as a box of lentils could be construed as criticism, which was, in her present shaky state, the last thing she wanted to convey. She wanted, rather, to make the flat look, by the time Barney and Kate returned, like a humble but unmistakable token of gratitude. She wanted, she acknowledged with difficulty, to appear sorry without actually having to say so.

From the sitting room, her mobile rang. Rosa went slowly to answer it, pulling off the rubber gloves and saying to herself, under her breath, as she seemed to have been saying for years every time the phone rang, ‘Make it a surprise, make it something nice, make it—’

‘Darling?’ Edie said.

‘Mum, hi—’

‘Are you all right? What are you doing?’ ‘Actually,’ Rosa said, ‘cleaning’. ‘Cleaning? Why?’

‘I want to. I like it. It’s Saturday morning. Cleaning time’.

‘Not in this house,’ Edie said. ‘I remember’.

‘Rosa, what’s happening?’ ‘Happening?’

‘Yes. We haven’t spoken for weeks—’ ‘Five days’.

‘I want to know if you’re OK’. Rosa stood a little taller.

‘I am’.

‘Are you?’

‘Yes, Mum. Thank you’. ‘Have you found a job?’

‘Yes’.

‘What—’

‘Not a good job. But a job. In a travel agency’.

‘Rosa—’

‘Don’t start’.

‘You’re so bright and beautiful,’ Edie said, ‘I don’t want you wasting yourself’.

‘Nor do I’. ‘Darling—’

‘Mum,’ Rosa said, interrupting. ‘What’s going on with you?’

‘Oh, that’.

‘Yes, that. I can tell there’s something’. ‘Well,’ Edie said, ‘I got the part’. ‘Mum! The Ibsen?’

‘Yes. Isn’t it odd?’

‘Odd?’

‘Yes. To get a part you don’t want when you weren’t trying’.

‘You do want it’.

‘Maybe’.

‘I think it’s wonderful,’ Rosa said. Her throat hurt, as if she were about to cry. ‘Congratulations. It’s brilliant’.

‘We’ll see,’ Edie said. ‘Read-through on Tuesday. I get to meet my stage son. Have you heard from Matthew?’