Molly made herself toast. Issy poured Shreddies. Ros sat in the garden smoking her third cigarette of the morning, drinking her second cup of coffee, her feet up on a rotting chair, moccasin slippers and leg warmers, she’d banned the girls from owning UGGS. She had a scarf on, too, and her ski jacket over her dressing gown. It was freezing. Her breath made clouds, her cigarette smoke drifted over a garden hard-tipped and white. She glanced at the kitchen window and saw Diane kiss Issy on the head and Molly point at the back door.
“Only me.” Diane wore a Puffa jacket that could have doubled as a duvet. Full length. Black. She’d zipped it to her chin, and around her neck she’d wound a pink pashmina for good measure.
‘Have you got coffee?”
“Molly’s making me some.” She pulled out a chair and wiped the seat with her leather-gloved hand.
“They’re damp. And that one’s rickety.” Ros pointed at another.
Diane sat down. “Are you okay?” She unwound the pashmina so that her lips were visible.
Ros shook her head. “Not really.”
“The girls said they made you breakfast.”
“I told them not to bother.”
“They’re worried.”
Ros looked at her phone. “They have to get to school.”
“Peter will take them. It doesn’t matter if they’re late.”
“Molly’s refusing to go.”
“She’s upset.”
“I could fucking kill Harold.”
“It’s not his fault, Ros. Ah.” Diane smiled up at Issy who’d come out with a cup of coffee for her. “Thank you my angel.”
Issy plonked herself on her aunt’s knee. “Molly’s not going to school.”
“She’s had a shock, darling,” said Diane, stroking Issy’s head and tucking her blond hair behind her ear.
“I’ve had a shock too,” said Issy, shaking her hair loose again.
“You didn’t know her,” said Ros.
“Yes I did,” said Issy. “I want to go to the funeral.”
“Don’t be ghoulish,” Ros replied, picking a stray piece of tobacco from her lips. She’d started smoking roll ups. They felt healthier.
“Molly’s going.”
“No, she’s not.”
“I want to see.”
“It’s not a spectator sport.”
“It’s not for children,” said Diane at the same time.
“How can a child’s funeral not be for children?” said Issy.
“Stop it.” Ros stubbed her cigarette out on the edge of her chair and threw the butt into the roses which needed deadheading.
“It wouldn’t be right, darling,” said Diane gently. “And really it’s only for close family and friends.”
“Then why is Mum going?”
“Your mother was her Godmother, Isswizz.” Diane patted Issy’s back.
“If Molly’s going to the funeral then I want to go the funeral.”
“No one’s going to the fucking funeral,” shouted Ros, slamming her hand on the table.
“You are,” said Issy.
She imagined it; the morning of packing, her suitcase containing black, her hair tied back, tissues in her bag. She imagined getting changed at the hotel, mascara waterproofed and lips muted, looking at herself in the mirror, getting into Peter’s car, being driven in slow, silent arcs to the crematorium. She saw straggling clumps of people in hats, coats wrapped against cold, Cara’s mother breaking away, the awkwardness of seeing Ben, the pain on Cara’s face. There was the coffin arriving. There was Ben waiting to lift it to his shoulder, there were the pews filled with family and friends. She imagined not knowing where to sit. She imagined not knowing what to say.
“Go back inside, Issy. Get ready for school, there’s a good girl.” Diane tipped her off her knee. To Ros she said, “And you’re not to worry about the play.”
Ros had been staring at the sky. A flight of geese in perfect V had come squawking and harping over the park wall and landed in a field beyond the garden. “I’m not closing the play.”
“Actually what I meant was,”
“What have you told Brian?”
“Clarice did a perfectly decent job of it.” They spoke over each other.
“Molly says I’m allowed to go if I want to.” Issy stood at the back door, her rucksack over her shoulder, her brown Duffel coat open over her school uniform; grey blazer with purple piping, trousers because she refused to wear skirts, sparkly winged trainers on her feet.
“Take them off,” said Ros.
“Issy, aren’t they glorious,” Diane clapped her hands.
“Dad bought them for me.”
“Take them off,” said Ros again.
“Is she not allowed to wear them?”
“What do you think?” snapped Ros. “And I’m not having Clarice take my part.”
“Clarice is too old to play Elvira,” said Issy. “Mum’s old but at least she’s not as old as Clarice.”
Molly appeared behind her sister. Straight brown hair loose about her shoulders, a fringe she’d come home with that Nancy had cut for her, the kind that would look crazy on anyone over twenty, slightly jagged and slightly too short; you’d sue your hairdresser yet on Molly, who had the magic all seventeen-year old’s possesses, that no amount of kale and yoga will give back to you, it was beautiful. Gold rimmed glasses that she’d seen James Dean wear. Harem pants and tie-dye shirt, layers of loose cardigan and shawl; a cracked-up librarian in India, that’s what Ros had called her the other day to much hilarity to no one but Ros. Molly put her hands on Issy’s shoulders. “Why doesn’t Issy play Elvira? You know everyone’s lines, don’t you Iss?”
“Rehearsals are so boring,” said Issy.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Ros. “A thirteen-year-old can’t play Elvira.”
“But I do,” said Issy.
“No, wait, I think it’s a good idea,” said Diane. “Edith’s much easier to replace.”
“All I do is run about and say yes mum.”
“You do a very funny turn with a tray,” said Diane.
“Got to get your kicks somewhere,” said Issy.
Diane barked a laugh. “Heaven. Now run along. Change that fabulous footwear. Such a shame. Go and find your uncle. He’s waiting for you.”
Issy kissed her aunt, ignored her mother, pushed past Molly, and ran off into the house. They heard the front door bang.
“Now,” said Diane, dropping her hands to her lap. “I think we have a solution.”
“Issy’s not playing Elvira. It’s totally inappropriate.”
“Even for one night?”
“She’s thirteen.”
“They can fluff the kiss.”
“My dress won’t fit her.”
“Clarice can take it up. You’re practically the same size everywhere else.”
“And who’ll play Edith?”
“We’ll rope in Clarice for that. It’ll be funny.”
“I don’t see how you can think anything funny right now.”
“Ros, I’m not, I’m not.” Diane laid her hand on Ros’ knee. “You’re in shock. We’re just trying to sort things out, so you don’t have to worry. Peter’s been on to hotels in Bournemouth. He thinks if you leave first thing you’ll have time to check in and change. Molly can stay with me,”
“I can stay at Nancy’s,” said Molly. She turned on her heel and was swallowed by the kitchen.
“Or at Clare’s.” Diane finished. “And let me talk to Brian. All I told him was that there’d been a family tragedy and you were indisposed. Nothing more,” she waved her hand across the space between them. “We can cover opening night, and if you don’t feel up to it, we can cover the whole run, it won’t matter a jot, and there’s always next year. Why don’t you go and have a nice bath and let me and Peter organise everything.”
Ros pushed Diane’s hand from her leg. “No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“Sorry. I mean,” she lit a Marlboro. She still had half a packet in her coat pocket. “I mean thanks, for everything. But I’d really rather deal with Brian myself. Is that okay? If I’ve nothing to do I’ll go mad.”
Diane got up stiffly. She wrapped her pink pashmina about her neck. It pushed her hair up in a wave, an almost black dark brown streaked with grey, Ros could never understand why she didn’t dye it. In the UGGS Ros detested, she stamped her feet to get the blood flowing. “Of course. Of course you would. You do that then. And I’m sorry about tonight.”
“What’s happening tonight?”
“We’ve tickets for Hamilton. Been in the book for a year. Completely forgot until yesterday. Other wise of course we’d have you all round for supper.” She kissed Ros on the cheek. “Don’t stay out here too long.”
Ros nodded and sank lower in her chair, her jacket rose high on her neck, she zipped the front so that it covered her nose, sank into it as well; her breath felt hot in the small circulation of lining. Tessa would be home by now making coffee in the kitchen Ros had got to know, in the house she’d got to know. She’d be unpacking her things, having a bath in the bathroom Ros had cleaned when Scott had been out one night and not come back till an hour after closing. When he’d come in and said sorry and invited her to come round for dinner the next night, just the two of them, Freddy was having a sleepover at school. He’d pretended he'd forgotten when she turned up at his door the following evening, he’d ruffled his honeycomb hair and said shit, did I say that? Brian had me on the whisky, I must have forgotten, and she’d said not to worry and known that things said drunk are things said true, that he’d been unguarded, that he’d forgotten himself, not her. They’d said goodbye with a deal to meet at the pub after rehearsals on Saturday, last Saturday, and they had, and he’d kissed her, and when their steaks turned up she found she couldn’t eat and had given him half of hers as well. The rest of the cast hadn’t joined them. They’d crowded at their usual table, Brian on the bench, Barbara being ballast at the other end, Clare on a stool and Diane in the only decent chair while Ros and Scott had disappeared into the alcove at a table in the other room, and Ros had almost said shouldn’t we go somewhere else, but the range of his limbs had been so lovely. Also he’d driven her there. She’d texted him car won’t start. You passing? earlier that afternoon and he’d messaged no probs and sent a heart emoji.
Tomorrow Tessa would be at the theatre, and Ros had never meant things to go this far. Tomorrow Scott’s living wife who used to be her friend, who was her friend, would be taking her place in the audience, turning off her phone, hushing to a quiet and Ros was supposed to act normal. Why did these things always happen to her? Why couldn’t she remember it was never just anything; a play, a favour, a man on his own, a wife out of reach and Ros, who listened, who always thought at the beginning that she was just trying to help. Ben, Scott, a repetition that made her feel put upon, a coincidence she put down to her own bad luck and unfailing allure plus the hopelessness of other people’s marriages. She imagined the lights going up, Issy taking her place in a dress designed for Elvira, Scott without the real Elvira there to guide him. They hadn’t spoken since Tess came home, not a text, not even a thumbs up; he’d had all day yesterday, but he hadn’t even messaged to say don’t worry or we’ll figure this out or even we need to talk. She was freezing, she was stiff, everything hurt, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.
That last sentence. All the balance and poise of a dancer at the Royal Ballet. Wonderful.
“Why did these things always happen to her?” Indeed.