The Girl Below(11)

She’d said as much on the phone but I wondered why she felt the need to repeat herself. “You did what you could,” I said, parroting what I told everyone who felt bad about not seeing Mum enough toward the end, as if they might have been able to stop her from dying. “Besides, she didn’t tell anyone how sick she was. Not even me.”

“You didn’t know she was dying?”

“I knew she was ill.” An edge of defensiveness crept into my voice. “But I didn’t know it was terminal.”

“Who knows what any of us would do in that situation?” said Pippa, in such a way that I knew she would have done the opposite. “It’s a mother’s worst fear—well, second-worst fear—and she probably didn’t want to scare you.”

“What’s a mother’s worst fear?” I said, feeling stupid that I didn’t know.

“One that she can’t even bring herself to say out loud.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling even thicker than before.

For a while we talked about old times, but what Pippa remembered and what I remembered did not seem to converge. She laughed when I told her about Madeline, how after all this time the statue still gave me the creeps.

“Are you sure it has a name?” she said. “Harold and I used to call it the Midget. I tried to convince Mummy to sell it a few years ago to knock off a few bills and what not but she insisted on keeping the bloody thing. Said she’d rather sell her kidneys. I told her no one would want those, they’d be as pickled as her liver. Of course, she didn’t find that at all funny. According to her, I don’t have a sense of humor. Only Harold has one of those.”

From the kitchen came the hopeful clatter of plates, but when Pippa asked how far away dinner was, Ari only grumbled that it would be ready when it was ready. My stomach grumbled back. For weeks I had eaten only as much as I could afford, which was never enough to fill me up.

When we had exhausted the topic of old times, Pippa asked about my current situation—a subject I’d been dreading. Instead of saying I was unemployed, I came up with some rot about being at a career crossroads, unsure of what to do next, and was relieved when she responded, “That’s a generational thing, isn’t it?” because it meant I could nod in agreement and say, “Yes, we Gen-Xers are very restless.” When she asked if I had a boyfriend, I tried to feign the same indifference, but no one was fooled.

A question formed on Pippa’s lips, but she must have sensed this was a touchy topic and didn’t ask it. “Would you like another juice?” she said after a time.

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m walking.”

It had been a nervous joke, but Pippa took it literally. “Walking to where?”

“Willesden Green. I’m dossing on a friend’s couch. I’d love to get a flat around here but it’s a little too . . .” I hesitated.

“Pricey?” offered Pippa. “Trust me, if we hadn’t bought this place in the eighties, just before the property boom, we’d be living in Willesden Green too.” She told me they had the top two floors and had managed to convert the attic and build a small roof terrace. “The attic floor is Caleb’s territory—where parents fear to tread. Did you ever meet him?”

“Your son?”

“My darling boy.”

“I’m not sure.” I remembered something about a huge baby, a difficult birth, and months of surgery, nothing appropriate to mention. “Maybe when he was little?”

“Heavens!” said Pippa. “I can’t believe you haven’t seen him since then.”

She went to the foot of the stairs and called out, “Caleb! Caaaaaay-leb!” There was no reply, only the same dull bass line that had been reverberating from up there all evening. “Wait here,” she said, setting off for its source.

I went into the kitchen, unnoticed by Ari, and I watched him pour cooked pasta into a colander then lean back as a cloud of steam clipped his face.

“Would you like me to set the table?” I offered.

“Cutlery’s in there,” he said, pointing with his tongs.

The drawer opened on a junkyard of knives, forks, and spoons, and I searched for matching sets.

“You won’t find two the same,” said Ari. “She buys them in jumble sales. Don’t ask me why. They’re cheaper at Asda.”

“But not as charming,” I said, smiling at the muddle.

“Charming?” said Ari. “More like mad.” He carried the pot to the table and handed me a spiked spaghetti spoon. “Dig in.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for the others?”