The Perfect Girlfriend(70)
It arrives late morning, and the delivery men also help to erect the small double frame. When they leave, I wrestle with a bottle-green duvet cover I recently took from Nate’s – not his favourite set – and pull on two matching pillowcases, giving them a good shake before dropping them on to my new bed.
Slowly, the place is beginning to look more like mine now. The blank walls need some new pictures, so I sort through my favourite ones of Nate that I intend to get framed.
The following day is a Thursday, one of the days Nate’s mother opens her studio.
It is easy to locate. I park on a nearby tree-lined street and make my way to the glass-door entrance.
She is in there, alone, sitting behind a plain desk. She looks older than her pictures, but she has an elegance and aloofness that I remember from when I caught occasional glimpses of her at school. She sits on a small stool, with her back straight, reading a magazine. Her glasses match her navy top. For a fleeting moment I think that there is not much likeness between her and her daughter – much more so her son – but then she opens her mouth. And even if I had my eyes closed, I would know that they were related.
My heart rate quickens a little.
‘Good morning,’ she says, looking up from her magazine, which I now notice is an art brochure. ‘Feel free to ask any questions.’
‘Thank you,’ I say with a smile. ‘I’ve driven past here a few times and your window always catches my eye. I’ve been meaning to come in. And today, I thought I’d finally make the time.’
I browse. I don’t know much about art or photography, but I looked up a few useful tips before I left home. It’s good, apparently, to compliment the photographer on the work that went into the image and simply appreciate the scene itself.
I express an interest in one of the more expensive frames – a black-and-white picture of a regatta.
‘I love this one. The scattered white triangles of the sails caught my eye. Where was it taken?’
She beams. ‘In the bay, last year. It’s the view from my living-room window.’
I suspected as much. ‘I’m going to buy it as a surprise for my husband.’
‘I hope he loves it too. Does he sail?’ she asks whilst packaging up the picture.
‘Not very much. But then again, he’s not had time. We’ve only been married a few months. He was really keen and didn’t want to wait, so we married in Vegas.’
‘How thrilling.’
‘It was definitely the best day of my life. The only problem is that he doesn’t know how to break the news to his family.’
She looks up, as though unused to a stranger over-sharing.
I could tell her. I could tell her right now who I am. With one sentence I could force Nate to acknowledge me. I could tell her how brutal her son has been with my heart and show her proof that I am not deluded; that her son married me, then cruelly changed his mind. I could tell her that he’d told me things about her, like how she chose his name because she loved it, even though her husband wanted Nate to be called Julian.
‘How difficult for you,’ Margaret says. ‘What about your parents?’
‘They’re no longer around.’
‘Oh,’ she says, handing me the parcel. No doubt she is smugly pleased that her own life is divorced from such tacky problems.
‘He should just tell them,’ she adds as I walk away. ‘Good luck!’
She’s right; he should.
Outside, I text him.
I think your mother would be delighted to hear our news. I’ve just met her. She’s so lovely. I felt really guilty keeping her in the dark about me being her daughter-in-law.
My phone rings immediately. It’s truly amazing how quickly Nate can respond to any messages from me when it’s in his interests to do so.
I switch my phone off.
24
I drive to Bella’s favourite potential wedding venue, which is only a mile away from the studio.
I pay to enter the gardens and, using the map provided, head straight for the Italian section. There is no one else around. I sit on a bench feeling the cold seeping through my trousers and stare into a large pond edged with shrubs. Beneath the lily pads I see flashes of koi carp swimming near an ornate, carved stone fountain which is the centrepiece. Looking around, I try to imagine the garden in summer, because I can tell that it will burst into colour. Behind a patch of neat grass, rhododendrons line the rear. I switch on my phone and take a few pictures so that I can refresh my memory later.
I have seven missed calls from Nate and one from James. It feels like harassment.
I stand up and walk around the pond, passing by a statue of Bacchus until I reach the stone steps leading up to the villa. Looking up, I can see a balcony; ideal for Bella to pose on. I can already picture the scene as it will unfold: the royal wave, the ooh-ing and aah-ing of the guests as they stand by the clipped yews, taking photos of the bride and posing for selfies among the elegant surroundings.
My phone breaks into the film-like images playing inside my head.
It’s Nate. Again. He doesn’t bother with hello.
‘What do you mean you’ve met my mother?’
‘Calm down. I was with a friend who is interested in photography and we ended up in a studio near Poole. We got chatting to the owner and it turned out she was your mother. I only realized because she mentioned that her son was a pilot, so I married up the surname.’