But we never did talk it over. On the fourth day, Dad sent me an email, and my heart thumped frantically as I opened it—but it was the most soul-crushing missive I’ve ever received. He said that my post was still arriving at Greenoaks and perhaps I should get it redirected.
Post? Post?
Nothing about that night. Nothing about Krista. Nothing about anything that mattered.
My hurt rocketed to a whole new level. For a while I considered not answering at all. But then I decided to send a short, dignified reply back: Sorry my post has been troubling you, I do apologize, I will get it redirected forthwith. And that’s been the tone of our exchanges ever since. Short. Functional. Formal. The next correspondence we had was when Dad informed me that some distant relative I’d never heard of had died. I expressed my condolences as though I was addressing the royal family. Then, a week later, he said he was sending me some old school reports he’d found in the clear-out, and I replied that he needn’t trouble himself. And that’s it. Our only communication. In two months.
It’s as if Dad’s whole personality has changed along with his outfits and his fake tan. He doesn’t care about the things he used to care about. And I miss the old Dad so much, it makes me ache. I miss asking his advice when things go wrong in the flat. WhatsApping him jokes about the news. Texting him photos of wine lists in restaurants, asking, What should we order? and waiting for him to joke, The second-cheapest one, of course, before sending some proper advice.
I never understood headlines or TV shows about estranged families. I would wonder, How can that even happen? But now I’m in one myself. And I feel a kind of dizzy horror whenever I let myself think about it.
I can’t bring myself to tell Bean how bad things are. It’s just too awful. Plus, she’s so softhearted she’d get all stressed and probably decide it was somehow her fault. In fact, there’s only one person I can think of who could possibly help. It was Mimi who patiently solved all our tearful arguments when we were growing up, unpicked the rights and wrongs, sorted out our burning injustices. If anyone could listen, counsel, and gently negotiate, it would be her.
But, of course, she’s the one person I can’t possibly ask.
* * *
—
I find Mimi in the garden, pruning her single rosebush, looking tanned after her recent trip to France. Mimi’s taken to traveling a lot recently: She does city breaks and art trips and went on a wine-tasting tour of South Africa that took a whole month.
“Darling! Didn’t hear you!” Her face lights up as she sees me, and she comes forward to hug me. I’m fully intending to make small talk before launching into the main subject—but then I discover that I can’t.
“So, there’s this party,” I say.
“Yes, I’ve heard about the party,” replies Mimi in neutral tones, resuming her pruning.
“Just so you know, I’m not going,” I say, a touch defiantly.
Maybe Mimi and I will spend Saturday night together, I’m suddenly thinking. Maybe I’ll take her out for supper. Yes. We’ll hold our own little party.
“You’re not going?” She seems genuinely surprised, and I try to think how to explain without getting into it all.
“Don’t feel like it. Anyway, never mind about that,” I add quickly. “How have you been?” Finally, I’ve got to the small talk I should have started with. “You look really well. And the garden looks nice!”
“Thank you, my love. We’ll get there. I’m thinking of putting in a plum tree.”
“Plum crumble!”
“Exactly.”
We always used to make plum crumble together, Mimi and I. It was our thing. We’d pick the plums, dodging the wasps, and then cut them up and disagree about how much nutmeg to grate and then Gus would wander in and his eyes would light up and he’d say, “Does this mean we’re having custard?”
Mimi deadheads a few more roses, then, as though following the same train of thought, says, “Have you spoken to Gus recently? He seems very preoccupied at the moment.”
“Not for ages,” I say, relieved to talk about someone else. “He’s a bit rubbish at replying to messages. But when we did last speak, he seemed quite stressed out.”
“Hmm,” says Mimi noncommittally. Then she adds lightly, as though changing the subject, “Is Romilly coming to the party?”
Ha. This is her secret code. Mimi wouldn’t bitch about Romilly, because that’s not her style. But it’s clear she thinks exactly the same way as both Bean and I do: Gus is stressed out because of his nightmare girlfriend.