framed photographs and a dressingtable with little white china-lidded pots for her cotton wool, all of which had seemed impossibly chic at the time. Jenny had taken her own makeup off with wet cheap toilet paper and the only decoration on her walls consisted of her lecture timetables.
Jenny smoothed the paper with the edge of her hand and began to read.
1. Ollie dentist.
2. Buy fish oils.
3. Thank Suze for playdate thingy
4. Guttering!
5. Cake stall year two next Friday—bake?
6. Smear
7. Car service
8. Lobotomy
9. Speak to Jenny about it
“Speak to Jenny about
it
?” She frowned, puzzled. Why the glum smiley? “No, no idea, sorry.”
He frowned. “The lobotomy. She says lobotomy. Was she so bloody bored with her life, Jenny?”
“No!”
“She was frustrated. I hate that.” He twisted his hands together. They were hands that she’d seen dance along piano keyboards at parties involving mojitos and improvised renditions of “Bennie and the Jets” in happier times. Today, for some reason, they looked broken.
“Look, Sophie had a good brain on her.” She tried to sound calm and composed and rational but inside she was panicking. She remembered the question in the churchyard, a question, thankfully, he’d not asked again. But she felt it looming. “She was one of those women who could have done anything. And she chose her family. That waswhat she wanted. You. Freddie. This. Exactly this. She was so happy, really happy. You two had what everyone wants, Ollie. I knew her, Ollie. I knew her better than anyone. And I know she loved you and her life here more than anything.”
He leaned against the fridge and letter fridge magnets scattered onto the floor. “I just keep looking for…for proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“I don’t know. Something. Something…” he said, his voice drifting off, making the hair lift on Jenny’s arms.
S he closed the door of number thirty-three with some relief and strode off purposefully toward Muswell Hill Broadway in search of a deli, freshly fallen snow squeaking under her feet. She wondered again what it was that Sophie had wanted to talk to her about. Why the glum smiley? It must have been something bad. Something important, for her to underline it. How incredibly frustrating that now she’d never know.
The Broadway was as it always was, the armada of expensive baby buggies, the glittering shop fronts selling knitted toys and organic beauty creams, the steaming lattes and cinnamon cakes. One second she was finding the familiarity of the street comforting, the next she was winded by loss. She realized there was no one else she could meander along a high street with in the way she did with Sophie. And for this reason only, just one reason among millions of others, she’d miss her forever.
Sophie had loved shopping for its own sake. She’d loved a bargain. In their twenties they’d spent many weekends meandering around Camden Market, Portobello and Brick Lane. She was a collaborative shopper, as happy to find something for Jenny as she was for herself. She adored buying presents, spending money. Her eyes would glow with pleasure as she handed over a wodge of notes or acredit card, whereas spending made Jenny anxious; she’d been brought up to think she should save and had been the proud owner of a post office account that had earned about twopence a year interest since a small child. While browsing with Sophie was always fun, it sometimes got out of hand. Sophie made her buy things she didn’t often wear. Sparkly things. And there was that time she’d got trapped in a dress. Sophie, being Sophie, had insisted she try on a vintage creation—by an acclaimed designer she’d never heard of—with a strange twisty cut and smocking, in a frighteningly cool shop with unfeasibly thin shop assistants in Notting Hill. The dress, despite its age, was completely unaffordable and, in Jenny’s uninformed opinion, hugely unflattering. It was also impossible to escape
Jenny smoothed the paper with the edge of her hand and began to read.
1. Ollie dentist.
2. Buy fish oils.
3. Thank Suze for playdate thingy
4. Guttering!
5. Cake stall year two next Friday—bake?
6. Smear
7. Car service
8. Lobotomy
9. Speak to Jenny about it
“Speak to Jenny about
it
?” She frowned, puzzled. Why the glum smiley? “No, no idea, sorry.”
He frowned. “The lobotomy. She says lobotomy. Was she so bloody bored with her life, Jenny?”
“No!”
“She was frustrated. I hate that.” He twisted his hands together. They were hands that she’d seen dance along piano keyboards at parties involving mojitos and improvised renditions of “Bennie and the Jets” in happier times. Today, for some reason, they looked broken.
“Look, Sophie had a good brain on her.” She tried to sound calm and composed and rational but inside she was panicking. She remembered the question in the churchyard, a question, thankfully, he’d not asked again. But she felt it looming. “She was one of those women who could have done anything. And she chose her family. That waswhat she wanted. You. Freddie. This. Exactly this. She was so happy, really happy. You two had what everyone wants, Ollie. I knew her, Ollie. I knew her better than anyone. And I know she loved you and her life here more than anything.”
He leaned against the fridge and letter fridge magnets scattered onto the floor. “I just keep looking for…for proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“I don’t know. Something. Something…” he said, his voice drifting off, making the hair lift on Jenny’s arms.
S he closed the door of number thirty-three with some relief and strode off purposefully toward Muswell Hill Broadway in search of a deli, freshly fallen snow squeaking under her feet. She wondered again what it was that Sophie had wanted to talk to her about. Why the glum smiley? It must have been something bad. Something important, for her to underline it. How incredibly frustrating that now she’d never know.
The Broadway was as it always was, the armada of expensive baby buggies, the glittering shop fronts selling knitted toys and organic beauty creams, the steaming lattes and cinnamon cakes. One second she was finding the familiarity of the street comforting, the next she was winded by loss. She realized there was no one else she could meander along a high street with in the way she did with Sophie. And for this reason only, just one reason among millions of others, she’d miss her forever.
Sophie had loved shopping for its own sake. She’d loved a bargain. In their twenties they’d spent many weekends meandering around Camden Market, Portobello and Brick Lane. She was a collaborative shopper, as happy to find something for Jenny as she was for herself. She adored buying presents, spending money. Her eyes would glow with pleasure as she handed over a wodge of notes or acredit card, whereas spending made Jenny anxious; she’d been brought up to think she should save and had been the proud owner of a post office account that had earned about twopence a year interest since a small child. While browsing with Sophie was always fun, it sometimes got out of hand. Sophie made her buy things she didn’t often wear. Sparkly things. And there was that time she’d got trapped in a dress. Sophie, being Sophie, had insisted she try on a vintage creation—by an acclaimed designer she’d never heard of—with a strange twisty cut and smocking, in a frighteningly cool shop with unfeasibly thin shop assistants in Notting Hill. The dress, despite its age, was completely unaffordable and, in Jenny’s uninformed opinion, hugely unflattering. It was also impossible to escape
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