made me bite my lip.
‘She’s, well, it is stressful, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t really know what it’s like, people’s lives in your hands and all that. But I don’t really see her enough, not properly . . . ’
I went to open my mouth to reply but, not wanting to overstep the mark, shut it again.
‘I might call her when I leave here, actually, see where she’s at . . . pin the woman down.’ His accompanying laugh sounded a little hollow.
‘Good idea.’
You would have asked him directly if anything was bothering him but I didn’t want to delve. I might be wrong. There was just something in his voice, a sadness. I didn’t want to upset things, though, it was so nice to have him pop by. I knew when he left I would be wandering around the house again, straightening ornaments, opening the fridge, staring into it, forgetting why I was there.
‘Did you see the Liverpool game at the weekend?’
Luke took another flapjack from the plate, nodding, enthusiasm restored. ‘Amazing goal, they’re having a great season.’
‘Aren’t they!’
Lottie arrived less than 48 hours ago and I understood a little more. It hasn’t been what I imagined at all. I was a little nervous greeting her on the Sunday evening, had pre-prepared some topics of conversation – hoped she had seen the Sunday-night period drama last week. She hadn’t stayed the night since she’d lived with us all those years ago and of course it was so different now without you and her, heads bent together in conversation.
I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect but she seems jittery with energy, just as I feel I don’t have enough to face the day. We seem to be out of synch with each other. She was tapping at the table on that first evening, her eyes scanning a document in front of her and her other hand shovelling food into her mouth. Her phone bleeped and pinged and she looked stressed as she glanced at it.
‘It’s Amy,’ she said, after the third call she’s ignored.
‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
‘I should,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘It will be something to do with her wedding. I’m bridesmaid. I just don’t have time to get into it with her, whatever it is, or she’ll want to meet and I know I should, I really should, but I can’t. And I did see her on Saturday,’ she said, as if she was trying to persuade me of something.
I nodded, pushed a half-finished potato across my plate, making a pattern in the gravy.
She pushed her own plate away. ‘Do you think I’m being a cow?’ She tugged on the sleeves of her jumper, pulling the fabric down over her hands.
Just listening to her had made me anxious. What would you say at this juncture? That Amy would understand? That she should answer her phone? I wasn’t used to Lottie asking me for advice.
‘I, I’m . . . you’re not a cow.’
‘No, but do you think I could be a better friend? She wanted me to organise the hen do a couple of months ago and I was so useless she’s had to ask her sister instead. That’s bad, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it’s, I mean, I don’t . . . hen dos aren’t really my area of—’
The phone vibrated again and I glanced at it, relieved it had cut off my feeble attempts to help. I got up to clear our plates, wipe the table down.
She ignored the phone again. ‘I can do that, Grandad: you cooked.’
‘It’s fine, fine,’ I said, moving across to the sink, running the hot tap and reaching for the washingup liquid.
‘So do you think it will be OK? That I’m not helping much? I mean, she should get it, shouldn’t she? She knows I work long hours.’
‘I’m not sure, maybe,’ I said, circling a plate uselessly. Why couldn’t I do this stuff? You always made it seem so natural, Cora. It was why Lottie always asked you for advice. I tried to think about it. Lottie had known Amy for years and Amy had always been a great friend to her. She should be there for her now. By the time I had constructed an answer, something along the lines of helping Amy’s sister with the hen do, I noticed Lottie wearily picking up the various pages and folders in front of her, piling them into her arms. ‘Perhaps you could—’ I started to say.
My words were cut off. ‘I