Collette gives it a go, anyway. ‘Here,’ she hauls herself to her feet. ‘Have a seat.’
‘Oh, no, no,’ says Thomas, ‘I couldn’t possibly. You’re sitting there.’
‘No, you’re all right,’ says Collette. ‘I’m more of a floor sitter anyway. And I’ve been in chairs non-stop today. It’ll be nice to get on to a rug.’
‘No, no,’ he begins again, but Collette practically dives on to the blanket next to Cher. ‘Look, I’m here now,’ she says, and he tuts sheepishly and sits himself down, takes the cup of tea Vesta holds out across the gap. ‘Isn’t this nice?’ he says, again, and this time no one bothers to respond.
‘So can we have some cake, now?’ asks Cher.
‘Yes. Collette, do you want to play mother?’
‘Sure.’
‘There’s a knife in the basket.’
‘Okay.’ She reaches in and closes her hand around a handle that sticks out from under a chequered teacloth. Feels a tiny jolt of surprise as it brings the whole cloth with it. It’s a chef’s knife, best part of a foot long: a pointed end and an edge that looks like it would cut silk in mid-air like a Samurai sword. ‘I thought I was just meant to cut the cake,’ she says, holding it up, ‘not stab it to death.’
‘Sorry,’ says Vesta. ‘My old man was a butcher. I’ve got all sorts. Knives, sinew scissors, cleavers…’
Hossein bursts out laughing. ‘It suits you,’ he says, looking at Collette. ‘It’s like it was made for you.’
Collette wrinkles her nose and makes a stabbing gesture through the air. They grin at each other and Vesta sees a small, indefinable moment pass between them. Then Collette bends to cut the cake.
‘So tell me, Collette,’ asks Thomas, ‘what brings you to our fine neck of London?’
This is why I didn’t want to come. Questions. They’re going to ask me questions. And I don’t know what to tell them. She lets her hair drop forward and cover her face, pretends to be concentrating on making the slice just so. ‘Oh, you know,’ she replies. ‘This and that. I’ve been abroad for a while. Just getting myself back together and working out what to do next.’
‘Do you come from here originally, then?’
No harm in telling them that, surely? Millions of people come from here. ‘Further over,’ she says. ‘Peckham, really. Over towards the Elephant.’
She sees the shutters of lost interest clamp down. No one cares about Peckham. London has invisible borders way beyond the north-south divide. To someone from the south-west, anything east of Brixton might as well be Berlin. It’s one of the reasons she had Janine sent to the home she did, one of the reasons she hopes she may get away with staying here: that in London terms, Leyton is as far from Ealing as Mars.
‘So what brings you to Northbourne?’ asks Vesta. ‘That’s a bit of a way from home, isn’t it?’ She can count the number of times she’s been to the West End herself on her fingers and toes. Even now she’s got a pensioner’s Freedom Pass, she can’t think of any reason to go.
‘I – my mum’s in a home. In Collier’s Wood. This seemed like, you know, near enough, but far enough away at the same time, if you get my drift.’
Hossein grins. ‘Oh, yes,’ he says. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘In a home?’ asks Vesta. ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, love. That must be hard.’
Collette shrugs. ‘It is what it is. But I didn’t want her to… you know. Alone. Not that she knows who I am, really, any more.’
‘Dementia? How old is she?’
‘Sixty-seven.’
‘My God!’ Vesta looks stricken. ‘But that’s younger than me!’
Collette doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s never really occurred to her that someone of Vesta’s age would think themselves still outside the zone when it came to the diseases of old age. ‘It’s her heart,’ she says. ‘It’s because of her heart. She’s got heart failure, and it’s affected her brain.’
What do you say? That she lived her life on a cocktail of prescription drugs and high-tar cigarettes and London Gin, and now she’s paying the price? A memory of Janine’s slack face swims up before her, and she wants to cry again. It’s not been much of a life, has it, Mum? I wonder if you ever wanted anything different for yourself?
‘My granddad had that,’ says Cher. ‘It sucks.’
‘How much longer do they think she’s got?’ asks Thomas, and the party freezes. Even Cher looks a bit shocked. You don’t encompass impending death with strangers. Not unless you’re in a hospital. He doesn’t seem to notice the change in atmosphere: just sits forward with his elbows hooked round his knees, curious. ‘Only, I work for the Citizen’s Advice,’ he says, ‘two days a week. It’s not something we handle, but if you need, you know, to know what to do, I’m sure I can find out.’
What a funny man, thinks Collette. I honestly think he actually means well. ‘I – thanks,’ she says. ‘Not much longer, I don’t think. It’s hard to tell.’
She glances up and is surprised to see an expression that looks like deep sorrow in Hossein’s eyes. Gosh, she thinks. You’ve seen some stuff, haven’t you? There’s someone you really, really miss. Then he looks away, awkwardly, and starts arranging the remaining patisseries on to the empty sandwich plate.
‘Who’s for cake?’ she asks, brightly.
‘Me,’ says everyone.
Chapter Sixteen
The Landlord’s settee is made of leather. Black leather, bought at the height of the 1980s black-leather boom and still going strong with its wipe-clean ways and smudged chrome frame. He bought it on the Tottenham Court Road when he still thought of himself as up-and-coming, soon after his aunt died and he became a man of property. Now, he just likes the feel of it beneath his naked buttocks.
He still has the smoked glass coffee table that came as part of the set. It sits in front of the settee, within easy arm’s reach of a supine arm-stretch; the whole area within reach of his free left hand is set up perfectly for his solitary pleasures. The tablet computer lives beside the telephone, on the armrest behind his head, and lined up on the table top are an icy tin of beer whose temperature is kept down with the help of a neoprene stubby holder emblazoned with a picture of a windsurfer in front of an improbable sunset and the word AUSTRALIA (he’s not been to Australia, but clearly someone who donates to the MIND shop on Northbourne High Street has), an ashtray, which contains two cigarillo butts and a pile of Werther’s Original wrappers, the remote controls for the TV and the DVD player and a box of tissues. Man-size.
The Landlord loves to come home and shed his clothes. He likes the freedom. He likes the draught from the fan playing over his skin, to be able to lift up the apron of fat that hangs down over his thighs and let his privates breathe. He likes the feel of sweat – and goddamn, this heat makes him sweat – turning to vapour, without the close confines of cloth soaking it up. And he likes to touch himself.
The Landlord strokes himself from shoulder to nipple and marvels at the efficacy of the Internet if you’re curious. It’s not just the things that turn up online that help you learn about people – and he loves to know more about his lodgers than they think he knows – it’s the things that don’t. The fact that Thomas Dunbar’s name no longer appears on the trustee list of the Northbourne Furniture Exchange, and the announcement that the Citizen’s Advice has cut down its opening hours to go with the prevailing Austerity. He’s noticed him about the place more, lately, fussing and gabbling and sticking his nose in. These bits of information look like an explanation. An underemployed nosy-parker is no one’s idea of fun.