The By Request Collection. Kate HardyЧитать онлайн книгу.
storage was just that. The question was how willing was she to find out and what compromises was she willing to make?
And if a practical marriage was the only way to keep him, then could she settle for that when the alternative was losing him for ever?
* * *
‘That’s you and your mother. You must have been about eighteen months.’
Alex stared at the photo, lovingly mounted in a leather book. It was one of several charting his mother’s brief life from a smiling baby to a wary-looking teen, a shy young bride to a proud mother.
‘She looks...’
‘Happy?’ his grandmother supplied. ‘She was, a lot of the time.’
Alex struggled to marry this side of his mother with the few pieces of information his father had begrudgingly fed him. He put the album back onto the low wooden coffee table and stared around the room in search of help.
Alex had never really known any of his grandparents but he had always imagined them in old, musty houses filled with cushions, lace tablecloths and hordes of silver-framed photos. The light, clean lines of his grandmother’s sitting room were as far from the dark rooms of his dreams as the slim woman opposite with her trendy pixie cut and jeans and jacket was from the grey-haired granny of his imagination.
‘My father said she cried all the time. That she hated being a mother, hated me. That’s why...’ he faltered. ‘That’s why she did what she did.’
His grandmother closed her eyes briefly. ‘I should have tried harder, Alex. I should have fought for you. Your father made things so difficult. I was allowed a day here, a day there, no overnight stays or holidays and I was too scared to push in case he locked me out completely—but he did that anyway. In the end my letters were returned, my gifts sent back. He said it was too hard for you to be reminded of the past, that he wanted you to settle with your stepmother.’
Letters, gifts? His father hadn’t just returned material items. He had made sure that Alex would never have a loving relationship with his family.
His grandmother twisted her hands. ‘If I had tried harder then I could have made sure you knew about your mother. The colours she liked, her favourite books, the way she sang when she was happy. But most importantly I could have told you that she loved you. Because she did, very, very much. But she wasn’t well. She didn’t think she was a good enough mother, she worried about every little thing—every cry was a reminder that she was letting you down. Every tiny incident a reminder that she was failing you. In the end she convinced herself that you would be better off without her.’
Alex blinked, heat burning his eyes. ‘She was wrong.’
‘I know. I should have made her get help.’ She closed her eyes and for a moment she looked much older, frailer, her face lined with grief. ‘But she was good at hiding her feelings and she was completely under your father’s control. He couldn’t admit that she wasn’t well; it didn’t fit with his vision of the perfect family. And so she got more adept at denying she was struggling but all the time she was sinking deeper and deeper. I knew something was wrong but every time I tried to talk to her she would back away. So I stopped trying, afraid that I would lose her. But I lost her anyway. And I lost you.’ Her voice faltered, still raw with grief all these years later.
Alex swallowed. ‘Can you tell me about her now?’
His grandmother blinked, her eyes shiny with tears, and glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Goodness, is that the time? My son—your uncle—will be collecting me soon. I always spend Christmas Eve at their house. You have three cousins, all younger than you, of course, but they will be so excited to meet you.’
Christmas Eve, how could he have forgotten? ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think...’
His grandmother carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I’m just going to ask him to collect me in the morning instead. You will stay for dinner? There’s a room if you want to spend the night. We have a lifetime of catching up to do. Unless, there must be somewhere you need to be. A handsome boy like you. A wife?’ Her eyes flickered to his left hand. ‘A girlfriend?’
Alex shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There isn’t anyone.’ But as he spoke the words he knew they weren’t entirely true.
Alex wasn’t sure how long his grandmother was gone. He was lost in the past, going through each album again, committing each photo to heart. His mother as a young girl on the beach, her graduation photos, her wedding pictures. There was a proud, proprietorial gleam in his father’s eyes that sent a shiver snaking down Alex’s spine. Love wasn’t meant to be selfish and destructive; he might not know much but he knew that. Surely it was supposed to be about support, putting the other person first. Shared goals.
Pretty much what he had offered Flora.
And yet it hadn’t been enough...
His brooding thoughts were interrupted as his grandmother backed into the room holding a tray and Alex jumped to his feet to take it from her. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘There’s not much, I’m afraid. I’m at your uncle’s until after New Year so rations are rather sparse.’ She directed him to the round table near the patio doors and Alex placed the tray onto it, carefully setting out the bowls of piping-hot soup and the plates heaped with crackers, cheese and apples.
‘It looks perfect. Thank you for rearranging your plans. You really didn’t have to.’
‘I wanted to. Everything’s arranged and your uncle has asked me to let you know that you are welcome to come too tomorrow—or at any point over the holidays. For an hour or a night or the whole week. Whatever you need. There’s no need to call ahead, please. If you want to come just turn up, I’ll make sure you have the address. Now sit down, do. I tend to eat in here—I don’t like eating in the kitchen and sitting in sole state in the dining room would be far too lonely. I rarely use it now.’ She sighed. ‘This house is far too big but it’s so crammed with memories—of my husband, of your mother—that I hate the idea of leaving.’
‘When did my grandfather die?’ Another family member he would never know.
‘When your mother was eighteen. It hit her very hard. She was a real daddy’s girl. I sometimes think that’s why she fell for your father. He was so certain of everything and she was still so vulnerable. Your grandfather’s death had ripped our family apart and we were all alone in our grief. I still miss him every day. He was my best friend. He made every day an adventure.’
The soup was excellent, thick, spicy and warming, but Alex was hardly aware of it. Best friends? So it could work.
‘That’s the nicest epitaph I ever heard. He must have been an amazing man.’
How would Alex be remembered after he died? Hopefully as a talented and successful architect. But was that enough?
No. It wasn’t. He wanted someone to have that same wistful look in their eye. That same mingled grief, nostalgia, affection and humour. No. He didn’t want just someone to remember him that way.
He wanted Flora to. He wanted every day to be an adventure with his best friend. Not because it was safe and made sense. No. Because he loved her.
FLORA WOKE WITH a start, rolling over to check her phone automatically. Five a.m. and still no answer from Alex.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the luminous green stars still stuck to her ceiling. It had been a typical Christmas Eve; Horry had turned up during dinner, ready to hoover up all the left-over rice, pakoras and dahl, and then Greg had insisted on babysitting so that Minerva and Flora’s mother could join the rest of their family for a couple of drinks before they all trooped to the ancient Norman church for the short and moving celebration of Midnight Mass. It wasn’t often they were all together like this, but it just made Alex’s