The Last List of Mabel Beaumont(44)

‘You’ve made yourself at home!’ he says, making me jump. He gestures to the clothes I’ve removed and put on the arm of the chair.

‘I was a little warm,’ I say.

‘So this friend,’ he says, picking up my coat and giving it a shake before taking it into the hallway, presumably to hang up. There’s something a bit off about the way he says ‘friend’, but it’s not enough to take issue with. ‘It wouldn’t be Dot Brightmore, would it?’

I don’t look at him. ‘That’s right.’

‘I thought as much. So you lost track of her, over the years?’

‘She left town, just before Arthur and I got married. I never heard from her again.’

He lets out a whistle. ‘So that’s, what, got to be more than sixty years?’

‘Sixty-two,’ I say, still not making eye contact.

‘So why now?’

I don’t know how to answer this and I don’t feel I should have to, either. So I don’t.

‘I’ve been to her old family home, just around the corner, here. And I’ve been to an address I had for her in London, but no joy. I’m just looking for advice, or anything you might know about the family.’

He holds a finger up as if telling me to wait and goes back to the kitchen. I want to get up and walk out, hate feeling like this, like I have to acquiesce to him. I wish I’d said no to a cup of tea now. I feel all hot and itchy and like I don’t want to be inside my skin. To calm myself down, I stand and have a look around the room. There’s something strange about it but I can’t put my finger on it. It’s not the television in the corner or the wobbly-looking bookshelf. Not the oil painting of a poppy field above the sofa, or the sofa itself, old and sagging as it is.

‘I was friendly with your brother, Bill,’ he says, putting the mugs down on the coffee table without coasters. They’re too full, and mine sloshes over the top and down the side but he doesn’t make any move to clean it up. I don’t like hearing Bill’s name in his mouth, or the fact that he tagged Bill’s name on after ‘your brother’, as if I might have forgotten it.

‘I remember,’ I say.

‘I’m sure there’s a lot you remember.’

‘Look,’ I say, finding the courage to meet his gaze, ‘do you think you can help me, or not?’

He’s a bit taken aback. No doubt because the twenty-two-year-old me would never have stood up to him, but it’s not her he’s sitting in his living room with, pretending to be civil. It’s me, older and braver. I know how precious time is, now, know I don’t have a lot of it to waste. Know for sure I don’t want to spend any more of it than necessary sitting in this stuffy room with this bitter old man. And that’s when I realise what it is, about the room. There are no photographs. No wedding portrait, no kids, no grandchildren. No knick-knacks, either. It could be anyone’s living room. It could be a set.

‘I’ll see what I can do, what I can find out,’ he says. ‘Here, write your name and telephone number down for me, maybe your address, too.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, standing up and gathering my things. I do as he says, listing my contact details. My tea is still half full but I can’t stomach it.

On the doorstep, I ask him one last thing. ‘Did you ever marry?’

He looks down at the carpet. ‘No, I… well, I suppose I never met the right woman.’

I nod, and he looks up, meets my gaze.

‘Well,’ I say. ‘Goodbye, then.’

All the way home, I’m grateful for the fresh air, despite the cold and the biting wind. I let myself in at home and Olly comes over to me and growls. He’s angry that I went out without him.

‘Kirsty will be here later,’ I say, and I check he’s got plenty of food and drink in his trays.

In the half hour before Julie’s due, I make myself a sandwich and watch the end of Top of the Morning, listen to that Michael Silver going on about catering for a crowd at Christmas. I wish that was a problem I had. But then, perhaps it could be freeing, spending Christmas alone. No presents, no pressure. Just a day like any other, but with a few treats here and there. I’m still mulling it over when Julie arrives. She’s got that spring in her step she’s had ever since our night out.

‘How’s that husband of yours?’ I ask.

She smiles a bit dreamily. Looks like a teenager. ‘Do you know? I think we might work things out.’

The day after our drinks, she told me that he came back with her, spent the night. And since then, they’ve been out a couple of times. He’s told her it was never serious with that Estelle.

‘You can forgive him, then, for the cheating?’

Julie sits down on the arm of the sofa. ‘It’ll take time, of course. But I think so. I think it was some kind of midlife crisis.’

She’s talking about it like it’s already in the past, like they’re already back together. Good.

‘You forgave your Arthur, didn’t you? Three times, was it? I have to say, I’ll be absolutely clear that this is a one-time only thing. I don’t think I could forgive it again.’

What do I say? That I didn’t really blame Arthur for seeking love elsewhere, when he wasn’t getting any from me? It would lead to so many questions. I just smile and nod, and soon she’s up and buzzing about, getting things done.