This comment seemed to be the cue Debbie had been waiting for. She lowered her fork and looked attentively across the table. ‘Linda, I don’t mean to pry, but . . . what’s going on? Have you spoken to Ray?’
Linda pushed her food unenthusiastically around her plate. ‘I’ve heard from his solicitor,’ she replied, her voice brittle.
‘Has it got to that stage already?’
Linda reached for her glass. ‘Yup. Looks like I’ll be spending Christmas as a homeless divorcee,’ she said, taking a long gulp of wine.
Debbie hunched forward. ‘Look, Linda. I met David a few days ago, to talk about Margery’s legacy.’
Linda winced. ‘Debs, let’s not go over that again,’ she pleaded. ‘You were right – it’s none of my business what you do with that money. I don’t want to talk about it any more.’
Debbie smiled patiently. ‘Linda, hear me out. I wanted to tell you that I’ve written to the solicitor to decline the legacy.’
If there was a flicker of disappointment in her sister’s face, it was so fleeting as to be almost imperceptible. Linda assumed a look of benign impartiality. ‘I’m sure you’ve made the right decision, Debs. You don’t need to explain anything to me.’ She set her cutlery down on her plate and took a deep, fortifying breath. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said on Saturday night and . . . you’re right. I got carried away with my ideas for the café and the brand and . . . I went too far. I can see that now.’
Debbie had opened her mouth to speak, but Linda ignored her, fixing her gaze on the space above Debbie’s shoulder.
‘It really hurt when you said I was envious of your success, but perhaps you were right. I think I was a bit . . . surprised to see how you’ve managed to turn things around, and what a great job you’ve done with Molly’s. I guess I thought that if I got involved in the business some of what you’ve achieved might rub off on me.’ She met Debbie’s eyes at last and her lips peeled back into a rueful smile. ‘It sounds pathetic, really.’
‘Oh, Linda. It doesn’t sound pathetic at all,’ Debbie said vehemently, leaning closer in. ‘I didn’t realize how serious things were for you, at first. I assumed you and Ray had just had a falling-out, and that you’d sort it out in time.’
At this, Linda’s head dropped.
‘Look, Linda,’ Debbie said hastily. ‘I didn’t ask you here because I wanted an apology. I’ve got a proposition for you.’
Her sister raised her eyes in a questioning glance and, as I sat in the shoebox, my ears flickered attentively.
‘When I said I’ve declined Margery’s legacy, that was only part of the story,’ Debbie explained. ‘I agreed to do so on one condition: that I can use Margery’s cottage in Oxford, for a year.’
Linda’s face wore a look of blank incomprehension. ‘But . . . I don’t understand, Debs,’ she stammered. ‘Why would you want to move to Oxford? What about the café?’
I felt as though my heart had just dropped in my chest. The possibility that Debbie might move into Margery’s cottage, leaving Linda to take over the flat, was not something that had ever crossed my mind. The very thought horrified me. The prospect of cohabiting with Linda and Beau for a year was almost as bad as the idea of moving in with David.
Linda’s bewildered expression suggested that she shared my confusion, but Debbie reached across the table to place a hand on her sister’s wrist. ‘I’m not planning to live there myself, Linda.’ She laughed. ‘I was thinking of you!’
Linda’s mouth fell open.
‘It’s only for a year, and the cottage will still belong to David,’ Debbie explained quickly, ‘but he’s agreed to let me – us – be his tenants, for a peppercorn rent. It’s been empty for a while now, and I think he’s quite keen to have someone living there, to keep an eye on the place.’ Linda’s stunned expression had faded but, as she listened to Debbie, her shoulders began to droop. ‘I thought it could give you a base of your own, while you’re sorting out your situation with Ray,’ Debbie went on, sensing that Linda needed reassuring. ‘That is, if you want to, of course?’
‘Debs, that’s really kind, but . . . it doesn’t feel right,’ Linda said heavily. ‘As you’ve pointed out to me before, Margery’s intention was for Molly and the kittens to be taken care of. My using her cottage as a bolthole while I sort out my divorce isn’t what she would have wanted.’
Debbie tilted her head and, with the patient look of someone explaining something to a small child, said, ‘Linda, did you really think I was going to let you sleep on a friend’s sofa over Christmas? Of course you’ve got to come back here. But we both know that you moving back into the flat isn’t a long-term solution, either. We’d drive each other crazy, for one thing.’
Although her head was still bowed, Linda smiled.
‘But it wouldn’t be good for the cats, either,’ Debbie continued. ‘They’re territorial animals and, living in a café, they need somewhere quiet they can escape to, somewhere calm and . . .’ her eyes darted to Beau on the sofa, ‘dog-free. So, the way I see it, finding you and Beau somewhere else to live for the next few months is as much in the cats’ interest as it is in ours.’
Linda rubbed her forehead in consternation.
‘It’s all in the letter I sent the solicitor,’ Debbie said, with an encouraging smile. ‘I explained that I felt it would be in the spirit of what Margery wanted, and we would make sure that David isn’t out of pocket. David’s seen the letter and approved it.’
All of a sudden, Linda burst into tears, clamping her hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs. Debbie stood up and bent awkwardly over the table to hug her.
‘Thank you,’ Linda snivelled into her sister’s shoulder.
‘You’re very welcome,’ Debbie replied, rubbing her back. ‘Oh, and if you don’t mind the commute, I’d love you to carry on working in the café. Paid, of course – no more slave labour. You’re a natural with the customers, and they’ve all been asking after you.’
Linda pulled away to look at Debbie. There were trickles of black on her cheeks where her mascara had run. ‘I’d love to, thank you,’ she replied, fresh tears springing into her eyes.
By the time Sophie returned home, Linda and Debbie had almost drained their second bottle of wine. They were on the sofa, giggling at some shared memory of their schooldays, with a sullen-looking Beau relegated to the floor by their feet.
‘Hi, Linda,’ said Sophie, coming warily into the living room.
‘C’m’ere, Soph,’ cried Linda, seizing her niece around the neck in a one-armed hug.
Sophie raised her eyebrows at Debbie over Linda’s shoulder, but her mother’s eyes wore the same glassy, unfocused look as Linda’s.
‘Auntie Linda and I have come to a desh . . . a desish . . .’ Debbie slurred. ‘We’ve sorted a few things out. She’ll be staying with us for Christmas, but—’
‘Your mum,’ Linda cut in, gripping Sophie’s upper arms and looking up into her face earnestly, if a little blearily, ‘is an angel!’
Sophie’s eyes widened and her lip curled up into a sardonic smile. ‘Okay, Auntie Linda,’ she murmured politely, ‘if you say so.’
26
It was past midnight when Debbie and Linda finally agreed it was time to turn in for the night. Beau watched drowsily from the rug as Linda cleared away the wine glasses and Debbie prepared the sofa-bed.
Returning from the hall cupboard with an armful of pillows, Linda stumbled over a shoe and, flinging one arm sideways to regain her balance, dislodged a mound of jackets from the coat rack. Hearing her sister’s yelp of alarm, Debbie abandoned her attempt to wrestle the duvet into its cover and staggered over to the door. She leant against the doorframe, giggling at Linda’s clumsy efforts to reunite the coats with their pegs.