Read Online My Last Confession by Helen Fitzgerald - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Helen Fitzgerald
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furniture that suggested wealth a generation or so ago. A barely opened curtain cast a shaft of light on the dust, smoke and grit that shared the air of the crowded room.
Amanda told Mrs Bagshaw that she and Jeremy were getting married.
‘We’d be so happy if you could come,’ she said, handing her an invitation she’d designed and printed out on the computer especially. ‘Will you come?’
Mrs Bagshaw sat down in the corner of the room, lit a cigarette and poured a glass of pure gin. She inhaled energetically , sucking the life out of her Marlborough full strength so hard that its end sizzled and curved. She exhaled less smoke than Amanda expected considering the hefty intake, and said, ‘Let me tell you what your fiancé did.’
The cigarette ash clung on as Mrs Bagshaw told Amanda her half of a terrible story.
‘I won’t be coming,’ she said when she’d finished, tapping the two inches of grey into her overflowing ashtray. ‘And I’d prefer if you didn’t visit me again.’
Amanda didn’t even try not to cry on the tube on the way home. She was devastated for Mrs Bagshaw, but even more devastated for her beloved Jeremy. She rushed into their Islington flat and immediately confessed her secret mission, hugging Jeremy tight and telling him how sorry she was, so sorry, please hug me, please hug me, please talk to me.
So Jeremy hugged her, and then told her his half of the story.
*
As she sat alone by the window in Crinan, Amanda pieced the two stories together in her mind, imagining the terrible events of Jeremy’s childhood.
*
Jeremy’s parents met while they were both travelling in New Zealand. They then settled into a very happy affluent life in London. Jeremy’s father, Richard, was anaccountant. His mum, Anne, had been a lawyer. Before having kids they loved travelling, had friends around as often as they could, held hands, cuddled on the sofa, and slept for at least eight soothing hours a night. They had love and laughter, passion and spark.
When Jeremy came into the world, they lived in a flat near Tower Bridge, just like the one Jeremy and Amanda lived in. On coming home from the hospital with their beautiful baby boy, Richard had filmed him as they escorted him around his new house.
‘This is your room, Jer!’ Richard said excitedly. ‘This is your panda, and this is your tiny cute little baby-grow thingy, and this is where Mummy will wipe your bottom.’
‘Where Daddy will wipe your bottom!’ said Anne, and they laughed a lot, as they were prone to do in those days.
The first year was not the hell that Anne had been warned to expect. In fact, it was the happiest year of her life. She took twelve months off and spent a lot of it admiring her son, looking into his eyes and being awed by his cleverness. He was handsome, and very well behaved, and the bond between mother and child was rock solid.
By the time Jeremy was three and a half, they had built the new architect-designed house on the outskirts of Oxford overlooking fields. Jeremy loved running around the huge garden, collecting things like straight sticks and small spiders. He kept them in the clever storage facility under his bed, adding to his collections each day, proudly looking them over and re-organising them so that they made more sense.
One day, when Jeremy was nearly four, he was midway through putting his sticks in order of straightness andthen length when his mother came into the room holding something in her arms. It was a baby, his sister, and she was such a good girl, so gorgeous.
‘Look at her eyes!’ said his mother, unable to take hers away even for one second to look at his new stick system.
Jeremy had vague recollections of his mum before the baby came along. He could picture her making him mashed potato with sausages and tomato ketchup. He could almost hear himself saying ‘You’re my best girl’ and almost see her smiling face as she said ‘Yes, my love, I am, and you’re my best boy’. He
Amanda told Mrs Bagshaw that she and Jeremy were getting married.
‘We’d be so happy if you could come,’ she said, handing her an invitation she’d designed and printed out on the computer especially. ‘Will you come?’
Mrs Bagshaw sat down in the corner of the room, lit a cigarette and poured a glass of pure gin. She inhaled energetically , sucking the life out of her Marlborough full strength so hard that its end sizzled and curved. She exhaled less smoke than Amanda expected considering the hefty intake, and said, ‘Let me tell you what your fiancé did.’
The cigarette ash clung on as Mrs Bagshaw told Amanda her half of a terrible story.
‘I won’t be coming,’ she said when she’d finished, tapping the two inches of grey into her overflowing ashtray. ‘And I’d prefer if you didn’t visit me again.’
Amanda didn’t even try not to cry on the tube on the way home. She was devastated for Mrs Bagshaw, but even more devastated for her beloved Jeremy. She rushed into their Islington flat and immediately confessed her secret mission, hugging Jeremy tight and telling him how sorry she was, so sorry, please hug me, please hug me, please talk to me.
So Jeremy hugged her, and then told her his half of the story.
*
As she sat alone by the window in Crinan, Amanda pieced the two stories together in her mind, imagining the terrible events of Jeremy’s childhood.
*
Jeremy’s parents met while they were both travelling in New Zealand. They then settled into a very happy affluent life in London. Jeremy’s father, Richard, was anaccountant. His mum, Anne, had been a lawyer. Before having kids they loved travelling, had friends around as often as they could, held hands, cuddled on the sofa, and slept for at least eight soothing hours a night. They had love and laughter, passion and spark.
When Jeremy came into the world, they lived in a flat near Tower Bridge, just like the one Jeremy and Amanda lived in. On coming home from the hospital with their beautiful baby boy, Richard had filmed him as they escorted him around his new house.
‘This is your room, Jer!’ Richard said excitedly. ‘This is your panda, and this is your tiny cute little baby-grow thingy, and this is where Mummy will wipe your bottom.’
‘Where Daddy will wipe your bottom!’ said Anne, and they laughed a lot, as they were prone to do in those days.
The first year was not the hell that Anne had been warned to expect. In fact, it was the happiest year of her life. She took twelve months off and spent a lot of it admiring her son, looking into his eyes and being awed by his cleverness. He was handsome, and very well behaved, and the bond between mother and child was rock solid.
By the time Jeremy was three and a half, they had built the new architect-designed house on the outskirts of Oxford overlooking fields. Jeremy loved running around the huge garden, collecting things like straight sticks and small spiders. He kept them in the clever storage facility under his bed, adding to his collections each day, proudly looking them over and re-organising them so that they made more sense.
One day, when Jeremy was nearly four, he was midway through putting his sticks in order of straightness andthen length when his mother came into the room holding something in her arms. It was a baby, his sister, and she was such a good girl, so gorgeous.
‘Look at her eyes!’ said his mother, unable to take hers away even for one second to look at his new stick system.
Jeremy had vague recollections of his mum before the baby came along. He could picture her making him mashed potato with sausages and tomato ketchup. He could almost hear himself saying ‘You’re my best girl’ and almost see her smiling face as she said ‘Yes, my love, I am, and you’re my best boy’. He
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