I can’t say that driving in London is even remotely pleasurable, and I have to concentrate hard to avoid smashinginto a kamikaze cyclist or an especially determined pigeon. By the time we enter the pretty tree-lined streets of Wimbledon, I’m ready for an hour or so in a sensory deprivation tank.
I’ve never been to this part of the city before, and all I know about it is based on watching tennis. It turns out to be rather lovely, very green, with lots of cute shops and cafés and some grand houses tucked away behind neatly trimmed foliage.
“Have you always lived here?” I ask Marcy, as I make my way down slightly more civilised roads.
“Uh, yeah,” she says, sounding uncertain. “Well, I think when I was born we were in central London, but then with two kids, Mum wanted to move somewhere with a bit more space. It’s way too big for Dad now. Especially since Mum died.”
I almost crash the car through the front of a Polish artisan bakery as these words come out of her mouth. I grip the steering wheel, and say: “I’m sorry, Marcy. I didn’t know.”
It would, I think, glancing at Sophie through the mirror, have been useful information. She pulls a little face back at me and mouths the word ‘Sorry’.
“That’s okay,” Marcy responds with a sad smile. “Why would you? It’s one of the reasons me and Sophie get on so well – shared trauma, etc. etc. But I don’t tell people as soon as I meet them, because then they go all misty-eyed and start feeling sorry for you, you know?”
“I do know, yes. When did you lose her?”
“Ten years ago. Ovarian cancer. I was eight when she was first diagnosed, and it always makes me sad that when I imagine her, she’s always sick. I mean, there was a time before that, but I can’t always find it in my mind. Anyway. Next left.”
For a moment I’m disconcerted, then realise she’s giving me directions and hit the indicators. The wheels of the car crunch on the gravel driveway, and I park up outside a beautiful home. It’s a big Victorian villa, all ornate red brick and big bay windows.The front garden has apple trees, and the door is draped with a bough of wisteria that hasn’t as yet come into bloom.
The car next to me – Zack’s, I presume – is a sleek Audi saloon in metallic grey. My own car is a bright pink Fiat 500 with stick-on eyelashes, which makes for an amusing contrast. They look a bit like they’re out on a date.
I clamber out, pulling the seats forward so the girls can follow. I need to catch my breath, to recalibrate, to let this sad new strand to Zack’s story sink in. I can’t believe Sophie didn’t mention this – and yet, I can. She is wrapped up in her own little world. Her squirrel brain is always dashing from one thing to another. Lots of times when she’s forgotten to tell me something and I ask why, she simply looks confused and replies: “I’m sorry, I really thought I had!”, or “I just assumed you knew.”
I’m still feeling flustered as the front door opens, and the man himself is standing on the steps. And yes, I do now see him differently – even though I hate it when people react like that to me.
He waves, and is almost knocked over by a supremely fat black Labrador shoving past him to greet Marcy. She crouches down to stroke him and he washes her face in kisses, his tail wagging so hard that his whole body shakes. Even the dog is different – I’d pictured something fancy like Afghan hounds, and here is this tank-sized creature making happy snorting noises as he receives his adoration.
Funny how just a few pieces of the puzzle can change the whole picture. Last night, I imagined Zack as this uber-glamorous London dude, with an equally glamorous wife. I imagined a life of corporate lunches and flashy dinners and them living in the kind of apartment that comes with a pool and a doorman.
Now, here I am, faced with a completely different version of him – he is a widower who lost his wife when she was tragicallyyoung, and who has raised his daughters alone since then. Plus, he lives in a family home with a fat black Lab.
I look up from the slobbering dog as Zack walks towards us. He’s dressed more casually today, in jeans and a short-sleeved white shirt that shows off his tan. His thick silver-streaked hair almost touches his shoulders, and the only slip from his ‘effortlessly stylish off-duty’ look is the fact that he’s also wearing a pair of giant slippers in the shape of Christmas elves.
“Dad, I only got you those as a joke!” Marcy says, pointing at them and laughing. “You look ridiculous!”
He grins at her, shrugs, and replies: “They’re comfortable, and they were a gift from you, so I don’t care if I look ridiculous. Come on in. I ordered from the café on the high street, so nobody’s at risk of being poisoned. Normal Lab rules apply – do not feed him, no matter how sadly he looks at you. He’s on a diet.”
The dog gazes up forlornly, as though he understands every word. I give him a quick rub on his broad dome of a head and follow the rest inside.
It is, as I’d suspected from the outside, a gorgeous house. Everything is painted in pale colours, and sunlight pours through every window. The hallway is lined with art and photos, and it smells faintly of lemons and lavender.
Zack leads us into the kitchen, which is a huge extension across the whole rear of the building. Skylights are open, and patio doors lead straight out into a long, lush garden. I spy clumps of bluebells and pots of daffodils, tables and chairs, and a wooden summer house that’s painted completely black.
“That was from my vampire obsession days,” Marcy says, seeing me look. “I’d sit in there in the dark, convinced that the sunlight would kill me.”
She does have very pale skin, almost translucent, so I can see where she was coming from. I wonder how much of it wasnormal teenaged girl stuff, though, and how much of it was laced with loneliness. I have no idea if she’s close to her sister or has cousins and aunts and uncles. She might have been raised in a clamour of noise and love despite the loss of her mum – but once the image takes root, I can’t quite shake it.
I’m brought back to reality by both Marcy and Zack crying out: “Bear! Get down!”
The dog, predictably enough, is attempting to scale the kitchen table and reach the summit of Mount Breakfast. I can’t say that I blame him – there’s a gorgeous spread laid out for us. Fresh croissants and pastries, a platter of deli meats and smoked salmon, cheeses, bowls of strawberries and cherries, big slabs of some kind of chocolatey traybake topped with almonds. There are jugs of orange juice, a pot of coffee, and a bottle of chilled Champagne in an ice bucket.
Zack follows my gaze and says: “Buck’s fizz?”
“I’m tempted, but no, thank you. I have a long drive ahead of me and I’ll need all my brain cells functioning.”
He nods, and I’m sure I see a flicker of relief on his face. I’m confused at first, but then I put it together. I suddenly realise that this isn’t just about seeing Marcy one last time – it’s about making sure that his daughter is safe.
I can’t blame him. The last time I saw this man I was a wreck, a burned-out party girl running on attitude. I had more alcohol in my veins than blood, and I was clearly reckless. I sashayed into our business meeting wearing last night’s clothes, stinking of booze, and skating by on winks and innuendo. It wasn’t pretty, and even less so when I followed up on that by doing a runner and leaving him with egg on his face in his professional life.
