Chrissie wore the same clothes; the fridge was ful of the same food; they al took showers and baths and spent hours on the computer and switched the lights and the television on, just as they always had. Tamsin had made a bit of a speech about economy the other day, but then she swished off to work in a pair of shoes Dil y swore she’d never seen before, and for shoes Dil y had a memory like a card index. It wasn’t so much that Dil y was afraid of economizing, afraid of making changes, but more that she was made fearful by the uncertainty, by these vague and awful threats of an impending doom, which was never quite specified and whose arrival, though certain, was vague as to timing.
‘Mum,’ Dil y said, turning away from yet another of Zena’s art shots of the Eiffel Tower, ‘Mum, we’l al get on our bikes when you tel us what’s happening and how we can help.’
Chrissie picked up her handbag and blew Dil y a kiss.
‘I’l tel you that, poppet, as soon as I even begin to know myself.’
When she had gone, Dil y was very miserable. Even the thought of texting Craig, of seeing Craig on Friday, didn’t have its usual diverting capacity. She logged off Facebook with an effort of wil and glanced at her manual. The next section was on sugaring and threading. Threading was real y difficult. The Asian girls on Dil y’s course said that in their community the threading technique was passed down from mother to daughter, so they’d known how to do it since they were tiny, a sort of beauty routine cat’s cradle. Dil y looked up, tapping a pencil against her teeth. Anxiety was an almost perpetual waking state now, and it made her fidgety and unhappy, unable to distract herself as she usual y could with a phone cal or a coffee or a bit of eBay browsing. She would have liked to cry. Crying had always been Dil y’s first resort when confronted by the smal est hiccup in life, but one of the many miseries of the present time was that she couldn’t seem to cry with any ease at al over little things. Crying seemed to have taken itself into another league altogether, and involved huge, wrenching sobbing sessions when she suddenly, al over again, had to confront the fact that Richie was no longer there.
Her phone, lying on the table beyond her laptop, began to ring. She picked it up and looked at the screen. It was bound to be Craig. It was, instead, a number she didn’t recognize. She put the phone to her ear.
‘Hel o?’ she said cautiously.
‘Dil y?’ Sue said.
‘Oh. Sue—’
‘Got a minute?’
‘Wel , I—’
‘Home alone, are you? I need to see you for a moment.’
‘Me?’
‘Dil y,’ Sue said, ‘I’m ringing you, aren’t I?’
‘I’m – I’m working—’
‘No, you’re not,’ Sue said. ‘You’re doing your nails and comparing boyfriends on Facebook. I’m coming round.’
‘Mum isn’t here—’
‘Exactly. I’m coming round to see you.’
Dil y said warily, ‘Are you going to tick me off?’
‘Why would I?’
‘You just sounded a bit – forceful—’
‘Not forceful,’ Sue said, ‘decided. That’s why I’m coming round. I’ve decided something and I want your help.’
Dil y said, ‘Why don’t you ask Tamsin whatever it is?’
‘Too bossy.’
‘Amy — ’
‘Too young.’
‘OK,’ Dil y said doubtful y.
‘Don’t move. I’l be ten minutes. Put the kettle on.’
Dil y roused herself. She said abruptly, ‘What’s it about?’
‘Tel you when I get there.’
‘No,’ Dil y said, ‘ no. No games. Tel me now.’
‘No.’
‘Then I won’t open the door to you.’
‘You’re an evil little witch, aren’t you—’
‘Tel me!’
There was a short pause, and then Sue said, ‘It’s about the piano.’
Bernie Harrison asked Scott Rossiter to meet him in his offices. He had thought of suggesting a drink together, but he wanted the occasion to be more businesslike than convivial, and he wanted Scott’s ful attention. So he thought, on reflection, that to meet in his offices would not only achieve both those things but would also impress upon Scott the size and significance of the Bernie Harrison Agency.
He had known Scott almost al his life. He remembered him as a smal boy at home in one of the plain-brick, metal-windowed council houses on the Chirton Estate in North Shields, when Richie and Margaret were stil sharing with Richie’s parents. Richie’s parents had been living in the house since Richie was five, being categorized as ‘homeless’ after the Second World War, which then meant being a married couple stil forced to live with their parents. And then, a generation later, it had happened to Richie and Margaret, before Richie’s career struck gold, and while he was stil taking low-key dates in obscure venues, and she was a junior secretary in a North Shields legal firm, and Scott was a toddler, cared for in the daytime by his sweet and ineffectual grandmother. After that, of course, it al changed. After that, after Richie’s ‘discovery’ on a talent show for Yorkshire Television, it was very different. The house on the Chirton Estate was abandoned for a little terraced house in Tynemouth and then a semi-detached, much larger house, with a sizeable garden, and when Scott left primary school he left the state system too and gained a place, a fee-paying place, at the King’s School in Tynemouth. Richie and Margaret had almost died of pride when Scott got into the King’s School.
Bernie held out a big hand.
‘Scott, my lad.’
Scott took his hand.
‘Mr Harrison.’
‘Bernie, please—’
Scott shook his head. ‘Couldn’t, Mr Harrison. Sorry.’
Bernie motioned to a leather wing chair.
‘Good to see you. Sit yourself down.’
‘Isn’t that your chair?’
Bernie winked.
‘They are all my chairs, Scott.’
Scott gave a half-smile, and subsided into the chair. He had a pretty good idea why Bernie had asked to see him, and an even better idea of what he was going to say in reply. He had not told Margaret he had been summoned, but he was going to tel her about the meeting when it was over. He was feeling fond and protective of Margaret at the moment. When, the other night, he’d asked her if she ever felt like he did that there might be someone or something out there that could spring him from the trap of his sense of obstructing himself from moving forward, she’d said,
‘Oh, pet, you know, you always hope and hope it’l be someone else who does the trick, but in the end it comes down to you yourself, and the sad fact is that some of us can and some of us can’t,’ and then she’d taken his hand and said again, ‘Some of us just can’t,’ and he’d had a sudden lightning glimpse of how she’d looked at his age, younger even, when there seemed to be everything to live for, and nothing to dread. He looked now at Bernie Harrison.
‘I shouldn’t be too long, Mr Harrison.’
‘Me neither,’ Bernie said firmly.
He balanced himself against the edge of the desk and held the rim either side of him. ‘It’s your mother, Scott.’
‘Yes,’ Scott said. He looked at Bernie’s shoes. They were expensive, black calf slip-ons, with tassels. The fabric of his suit trousers looked classy too, with a rich, soft sheen to it, and his shirt had French cuffs and links the size of gobstoppers.
‘Did she tel you,’ Bernie said, ‘about my proposal?’
‘Yes,’ Scott said. ‘The other night.’
‘So she also wil have told you that she declined my offer.’
‘Yes.’
Bernie cleared his throat.
‘Can you enlighten me as to why she’d turn me down?’
‘I wouldn’t try,’ Scott said.
‘OK, OK. I’m not asking you to betray any confidences. I’m just seeking a few assurances. Is it – is it me?’
‘You?’
‘Wel ,’ Bernie said, ‘does she think that if she worked with me I’d make a nuisance of myself? Your mother’s a good-looking woman.’