‘Well, I could,’ Maura says when we look at her.
‘If you ever have time, I’d love another one in cream for downstairs,’ Scarlett said kindly, even though she and I both know that finishing craft projects is not what Maura does.
‘Mum is addicted to buying wool,’ her daughter, Gilly, says naughtily. ‘Not making anything – just buying wool.’
Even Maura laughs at this.
‘Touché,’ she admits.
Today, Scarlett is wrapped up in the chunky grey throw and is watching daytime TV, one of the sadder shows about people who are genuinely trapped in their houses by hoarding.
Mildred, please don’t,I beg. I am not going to be that person. I’m just not good at throwing stuff out.
No shit, says Mildred caustically.
Scarlett’s paler than usual and her hair is unwashed.
‘Hello darling, let’s talk,’ I say.
Scarlett hugs me back and then says: ‘No, let’s not talk. I might cry and when I cry, I can’t stop. Let’s go shopping.’
‘But I thought—’
‘We’re going to the damn christening,’ she says fiercely. ‘I want something fabulous that makes people not eventhinkof asking if we’re ever going to have children. I want them to imagine us with a glorious life full of holidays and fun, and no desire to be parents whatever. I don’t want naked pity on anyone’s face.’
She showers, I make coffee as per her instructions and I decide she must be taking someanti-anxiety medicine. It would explain a lot.
‘Are you taking something?’ I ask straight out when she arrives downstairs, back to being Scarlett, beautiful, albeit with sad eyes.
‘Yes,’ she says almost defiantly, ‘and they’re helping me cope. They make me tired, though. I don’t want to talk about it: I just need a hit of coffee.’
Worryingly, I almost ask what she’s taking. Maybe AJ will give me those? I won’t sleep, but I’d be happy.
‘Will we talk or shop?’ I say, handing her a cup of something so dark that it’s evenblack-looking when a smidge of almond milk has been added.
Scarlett puts a slender hand on mine.
‘No talking. I’m all talked out. Let’s get this done,’ she says, her voice wobbling. ‘Love you, Freya.’
‘Love you too, Scarlett,’ I say.
It takes two hours to get an outfit she can bear. Scarlett is a fabulous shopper. I am hopeless. Sometimes I take photos of me dressed in clothes the show’s stylist has picked in order to remember how to hang the scarves properly or what way to tie belts. Yes, I am that bad. But buying the clothes that the TV stylist on my show finds for me is how I finally have a decent wardrobe.
Mum has such great style and an eye for stunning colours that make her glow, while Maura has a particular look, made up of neatly fitted skirts and colourful blouses. Scarlett has exquisite taste and can wear anything. I am the one that style forgot.
You can’t be good at everything,Mildred remarks.
Mildred? What gives? Are you listening to my mother telling me how great I am? Mildred keeps schtum.
Now that Mum is in my head, I have to say it.
I’m driving Scarlett home and then I’ll work on recipes.
‘Have you seen Mum this week?’
‘No, going over tomorrow evening.’
I pause; saying this is going to make everything more real, but I have to. If I said it to Maura first it would be like ordering DEFCON 4, so saying it to Scarlett is sort of the easier option.
