If I had to describe my ideal woman, physically, at least, Honor Chapman would be her. She’s flawless. Just flawless. The photo shows her gazelle-like stride, and those amazing legs. She’s wearing some kind of short, white sundress with a full skirt, and she looks positively girlish. Her face is hidden, her beautiful auburn hair swinging over it. The poor woman. It’s so fucking depressing to think that even someone as gorgeous as her isn’t entitled to love and fidelity and the fucking basics of the marriage vows they presumably made to each other.
Just seeing the story has shifted my mood. I push the paper away in disgust and, getting up, make my way through the park and out to Phillimore Gardens. Some people are so entitled that they think they havecarte blancheto behave how they want. Surely humiliating your wife like that has got to be one of the worst things you can do to a fellow human?
When I get to my parents’ place, there are a couple of guys lurking near the house with bulky long-lens cameras. Across the street, a security guard with an earpiece leans against a black Mercedes, arms crossed, staring at the cameramen in a menacing fashion. What the fuck? God knows who Mum has at the house this evening.
As I extract my set of keys, a couple of the cameramen click, and I make a run for it down to the basement entrance. It’s quicker to get out of sight that way, and I have a plan: grab a few slugs of ice-cold Peroni in peace to recover my personality before pasting a smile on for Mum’s friends and whatever poor person is dealing with her mother’s illness.
The basement door leads straight through to a huge white kitchen which, thanks to the power of a very expensivelighting consultant, is beautifully lit. Several platters of cellophane-covered food stand on the island, ready to go. Ooh, Ottolenghi. Mum’s go-to.
I resist the urge to pull off the cellophane and dig in and make a beeline for the drinks fridge. Peroni. Bingo. I crack off the lid and take a long swig. The cold, tart bubbles hit the back of my throat. Heaven. If life is about simple pleasures, this is as simple and as good as it gets.
I’m leaning against the island, resting the bottle against my cheek and contemplating facing Mum’s gang of superwomen, when I hear the handle turn on the door to the loo and look up.
What happens next seems to be in slow motion. The woman who comes through the door is tall, elegant. Beautiful. And instantly recognisable. Wearing a short, white summer dress that looks as fresh as if she’s just put it on, even though I know the paps saw it hours ago.
Her huge eyes widen as she clocks me, and I catch a flash of panic—she’s momentarily like a deer caught in a car’s headlights—before she visibly collects herself and steps towards me. The smile on her face is the same polished, professional butdazzlingsmile that I drooled over on so many viewings of her morning show,Sunrise, after so many night shifts when I was at med school.
‘Hello.’ She puts out her hand. Her cut-glass accent is instantly recognisable, after all these years. Iconic, one might say. ‘You must be Elaine’s son. Noah, isn’t it? I’m Honor.’
CHAPTER 4
Noah
How can it be possible that she’s even more beautiful in the flesh? She’son, I can tell; she’s putting on a performance just for me, but by God does it work. I’m embarrassed to note, while I’m actually doing it, that I look behind me briefly as if this is a set-up.
There is no way I just walked through Mum’s front door, thinking about Honor Chapman, and conjured her up out of Mum’s loo. I didn’t even know Mum knew her that well. If ever there was a reason I should have paid more attention when Mum talked about her friends, this is it.
In that split second, I decide to avoid the elephant in the room, which is the fact that, of course, I know who she is. She’ll be well aware of that fact, but I don’t want to embarrass her. She’s here at a friend’s house; I will not behave like some icky, star-struck fan. Even though I want to.
‘That’s me,’ I say instead. ‘Good to meet you, Honor. How’s it going upstairs?’
She leans in towards me, and widens her smile, and it’s all I can do to stand there and drink her in. Jackson James gets to come home tothisevery night. And instead he buggersoff to the States and shags his co-star. What the hell is wrong with him?
‘It’s getting a little lively, I’ll be honest. Stacey’s here.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘Do you know Stacey?’
‘Oh, yes. I know Stacey. She’s great fun.’
‘She is. And she’s particularly great fun this evening. She’s on fire.’
‘God. I’m a bit scared.’ I mock-grimace. ‘Maybe I won’t go up there.’
She laughs, and I fuckingmarvel. Melt. The press is so hard on Honor Chapman. They’re always calling her fragile and high-maintenance. And here she is, with her family’s faces splashed across the front of the tabloids, and she’s putting one step in front of another and smiling and making perfectly nice—heavenly, even—small-talk with a complete stranger. I’d say there’s nothing fragile about that. Not that she hasn’t had plenty of practice at putting on a brave face, being married to Jackson James.
‘Well, it’s kind of you to come,’ she says now. ‘Elaine mentioned she was dragging you over here to talk to me, and I’m so grateful.’
It’s only now that her gaze falters, and she reaches for the glass of wine that she must have left on the island when she went to the loo, and takes a sip.
‘It’syouwho needs to talk to me?’ Good lord.This would have been useful information, Mum. ‘Your—your mother is sick?’
‘Yeah. We just found out this week. We got the whole bloody bombshell in one go. It’s cancer.Boom.’ She gesticulates with her hands in the air. ‘Metastatic pancreatic cancer.Boom. Advanced. Terminal.Boom. There’s nothing they can do, apparently. We didn’t even know she was that ill until quite recently—I mean, she’s been in pain, but we didn’texpect this. And now it’s like she’s disappearing in front of our eyes; she’s losing weight so quickly it’s terrifying.’
‘I’m so, so sorry.’ Jesus Christ. I cannot bloody well believe she has to deal with this, on top of all the other crap she’s clearly navigating at the moment. ‘That is an enormous amount of information for you to process. Do you and your mum have any support?’
‘Well, my sister Ally is very involved, and she lives in London too, so… But we’re all still reeling, to be honest. And Mum’s lost so much strength so quickly. She’s at Ally’s for now—in Wimbledon. And we have a nurse. But her oncologist has said we should think about a hospice now because we’ll probably need one within the next few weeks.’
She puts down her glass and drops her head, rubbing a hand over her eyes. And she doesn’t come back up. She stands, head bowed, shaking slightly. ‘God. Sorry.’ She’s crying.
‘Hey.’ I step closer to her, puts a tentative hand on her bare arm. Make a very deliberate effort not to stroke it, for her skin is baby-soft. ‘You have zero reason to apologise. This is a huge burden for anyone. Please know you’re not alone. I’m happy to help in any way I can, and there are plenty of professionals like me who can support your family as you go through this. We will find a solution that represents the best fit for your mother and her priorities at this time, and one that also makes you and your sister feel supported. Okay?’
