‘That’s because she’s hardly ever here!’ Debbie chipped in, with a pointed look at her daughter.
‘And why do you think that is, Mum?’ Sophie riposted drily.
There was a pause, during which Jo glanced from mother to daughter. ‘I guess it must be a bit . . . crowded . . . in the flat at the moment?’ Jo said diplomatically.
‘You could say that,’ replied Sophie, a distinct edge of bitterness to her voice. She tore off a chunk of doughy naan bread and dipped it into the sauce on her plate.
Next to her, Debbie had assumed a miserable expression and seemed to have sunk lower in her chair. Jo carried on eating, eyeing the pair of them surreptitiously.
‘So,’ Jo said, in a ‘changing the subject’ voice. ‘What do you think about Margery’s legacy, Soph? What do you think your mum should do?’ At this, Debbie’s body visibly tensed.
‘I dunno, really,’ Sophie shrugged. ‘I think it’s a bit of a weird thing to do, leave all your money to a cat. But then I also think David sounds like a bit of a d—’
‘Sophie!’ Debbie warned.
Sophie rolled her eyes, continuing to muse on the dilemma as she chewed. ‘I think,’ she said at last, ‘that even if you’re not going to keep the money, you should string it out for as long as possible. Make David sweat over it. At the very least, that might teach him not to go around treating people like sh—’
‘All right, thank you Sophie,’ Debbie said sternly, sitting up straight to address her daughter.
‘She’s got a point though, Debs.’ Jo laughed. ‘It might not be such a bad idea to sit tight till New Year. Give yourself time to think about it, before you decide one way or the other.’
‘And prolong the agony even further?’ Debbie grimaced. ‘No, thanks. I don’t want to receive a court summons on Christmas Eve, if it’s all the same to you.’ She heaved a sigh and slumped back down in her chair with an air of self-pity.
‘I suppose,’ Jo replied, glancing at Sophie, who responded with an eye-roll. ‘What’s John got to say about it?’ Jo asked, hopefully. But the mention of John merely made Debbie’s shoulders sag still further.
‘Not much,’ she said in a long-suffering voice. ‘I haven’t heard from him for a couple of weeks. I expect he’s had enough of me.’
A gloomy hush settled on the table. It seemed that the more Jo tried to raise Debbie’s spirits, the more determined she was to see the worst in her situation. No one spoke for several minutes until, eventually, Sophie broke the silence.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Mum,’ she hissed irritably. ‘Enough with the pity-party.’
‘Pardon?’ Debbie replied, looking stung.
‘Well, are you surprised you haven’t heard from John?’ Sophie snapped. ‘The last time you saw him, you practically bit his head off about the legacy.’
Debbie’s brow furrowed indignantly, and she looked at Jo for backup. But Jo was staring hard at her wine glass, keen not to get involved.
In spite of Jo’s presence, Sophie made no attempt to soften her accusatory tone. ‘Honestly, Mum, you don’t get it, do you? First, you were so wrapped up in the whole Linda saga, and now in the whole legacy saga, that you seem to have forgotten that other people have feelings and might have stuff going on in their lives, too. You’re not the only one with problems, you know.’
Debbie stared at Sophie with a hurt look. ‘But I didn’t . . . I’m just trying to do the right thing by everyone, Soph. I didn’t ask for any of this—’
‘I know you didn’t ask for any of it, Mum,’ Sophie interrupted impatiently. ‘We all know that. But instead of letting Linda and David ruin your life, why don’t you just get off your backside and do something about it?’ Anger flashed in her eyes, and Debbie’s mouth had opened, but no words came out. Across the table, Jo was looking increasingly uncomfortable. ‘Honestly, Mum,’ Sophie continued authoritatively, ‘you need to start taking a bit of responsibility for your life. If you think you should decline the legacy, then do it. And if Linda’s interference is getting you down, why don’t you just tell her to f—’
‘Okay, thank you, Soph,’ Jo cut in with a tense smile. ‘I think you’ve made your point beautifully.’
Sophie sat back in her chair. Next to her, Debbie looked stunned. ‘You’re right, Soph,’ she said. ‘I guess I have been a little . . . self-absorbed recently.’ Sophie did not meet her mother’s gaze, but a grunt indicated assent. ‘And you’re absolutely right: I need to make up my own mind about what to do.’
Another grunt.
Debbie placed a hand on Sophie’s arm, and her eyes rested on her daughter with an expression of shrewd concern. ‘So . . . I guess I’ve also forgotten to ask what’s been going on in your life, haven’t I?’ she asked.
Sophie was staring at the piece of naan bread in her hands, breaking it into smaller and smaller pieces, until it disintegrated into crumbs on the table.
Jo drained her glass and tilted the empty wine bottle, looking at it with fierce concentration. ‘I think I’ll just pop out for another bottle,’ she murmured, standing up and grabbing her jacket from the counter. Within seconds she was gone from the café, leaving mother and daughter alone. Two spots of pink had appeared in Sophie’s cheeks and she looked like she was fighting back tears.
‘Well?’ Debbie prompted gently.
‘Well, since you ask, Matt and I have split up,’ answered Sophie, her bottom lip trembling.
‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Debbie replied, draping her arm around Sophie’s shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry. When did that happen?’
‘Tonight,’ Sophie whispered.
As Debbie leant in, Sophie’s restraint suddenly dissolved and she took a deep, shuddering breath. Debbie pulled her daughter towards her, resting Sophie’s head against her neck and stroking her hair. As Sophie sobbed, Debbie murmured soothingly into her ear. ‘It’ll be okay, sweetheart, I promise. Everything’s going to be okay.’
22
When Linda emerged from the bathroom the following morning, Debbie was waiting in the hallway for her.
‘John’s coming round for dinner tonight, Linda, so could you make yourself scarce this evening?’
I peered around the kitchen doorway to watch them. Adjusting her makeshift towel turban, Linda looked taken aback. ‘No problem,’ she replied compliantly.
‘Great, thanks,’ said Debbie, heading briskly into the bathroom and locking the door behind her.
Later, when Sophie finally wandered down from her bedroom, puffy-eyed and pale-faced in her pyjamas, Debbie patted a dining chair and beckoned for her to sit down. She disappeared into the kitchen and emerged moments later with a plate of sticky pastries and a mug of hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream and marshmallows.
‘There you go, Soph. Sugar and carbohydrate. The best-known cure for a broken heart,’ she said, lowering them onto the table.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ Sophie said, breaking into a smile. ‘Did I hear you say John’s coming over tonight?’ she asked, licking icing off her fingertips.
‘Yep,’ Debbie said decisively. ‘I took the advice of my ever-so-mature seventeen-year-old daughter’ – Sophie smiled bashfully – ‘and texted him this morning to invite him round, to say sorry for how I’ve been behaving recently.’
Sophie looked quietly impressed. ‘Good on you, Mum,’ she said approvingly, taking a noisy slurp of hot chocolate through the swirls of whipped cream.
After breakfast, Sophie retreated to her bedroom, Linda took Beau out for a walk, and Debbie set about tidying the flat with a look of resolute industriousness. I watched from the sofa as she ruthlessly disposed of piles of newspapers, emptied wastepaper baskets and cleared the dining table of its accumulated clutter. Eyeing the mound of Linda’s belongings, she marched over to the alcove and shoved as many of her sister’s clothes as possible inside the suitcase. When it was full to bursting, she forced it shut and pushed it roughly against the wall next to the pet carrier. Then she dusted the surfaces, and pushed the Hoover around with a look of grim determination. Finally satisfied, she fell heavily onto the sofa next to me. ‘That’s better, isn’t it, Molls?’ she panted.