we can’t, can we? Everything’s going to be different. And scary. And we’ve really not got everything ready. Oh, god …’
I try to remember the bittersweet panic of discovering I was pregnant. That time was a complicated one for me and Wade. We weren’t married when Marian was conceived. Not even engaged, actually. I did a very good job covering the baby bump in the wedding photos, so now nobody’s the wiser – not even Marian – and I prefer it that way. But I remember, in amongst the chaos, those moments of pure panic that sent me spinning, just like Martha is now.
It was the change of plan that upset me the most. There would be no job down in London now, no changing the world, no adventures – or rather, the biggest adventure, but one I’d be undertaking at home. There was no question of leaving Hamleigh now. And as for men … well, it would be Wade, for ever. He did the honest thing and proposed, and I was grateful. Who knows what my mother and father would have done with me if he hadn’t.
I take Martha’s hand. ‘You know what you need, love?’ I tell her. ‘You need a list. Let’s get a pen and paper and sort through all the projects that need doing before the baby comes, then we can make a plan, and a back-up plan.’
She smiles at that. ‘I can see where Leena gets her Leena-ness from, Mrs Cotton.’
‘Call me Eileen, would you?’ I say. ‘I don’t much feel like a Mrs any longer.’
I pull out my new project diary to start on Martha’s list.
‘Oh! Have you spoken to the landlord about the communal area?’ I ask, catching sight of spruce up on my last to-do list.
Martha sits up straighter, wiping her face. ‘Yeah, I meant to say: he loved the idea. Said he’d even give a bit of money towards it. Only five-hundred quid, but …’
‘Five-hundred pounds?’ I gawp. ‘That’ll be plenty !’ I pause, looking at Martha. She looks like she’s been worrying here on the sofa for a while. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy getting started on it? We can work on that list of yours afterwards.’
‘Actually, yes, do you know what – let’s do it. I’ve done quite enough wallowy weeping.’ She stands up, rubbing her eyes. ‘I was thinking we could try the antique place down the road, see if we can get some nice furniture without spending too much?’
I smile. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’
*
‘Oh. My. God.’ Martha clutches her throat. ‘This place. It’s a treasure trove. It’s – is that a genuine Chesterfield Behind that other armchair?’
She starts clambering over one of Letitia’s many coffee tables in her eagerness to get to the armchairs; I reach out to steady her, laughing.
‘Easy, love. We’re going to need some help moving all this.’
‘And you’re sure we can use it downstairs?’ Martha asks Letitia, wide-eyed.
Letitia shrugs. ‘Why not?’ she says. ‘As long as it doesn’t go walkabout, I don’t mind lending it. Especially if it …’ She swallows. ‘I like the sound of a communal area. It might be a nice way to meet people.’
I pause in thought, fiddling with one of Letitia’s bowls of trinkets. There must be lots of people like Letitia out there. I can’t imagine other apartment blocks are any better at getting people together than this one. It must be hard, living alone in this city, especially for the elderly.
‘Do you think the landlord would let us use the space for something … a bit … bigger?’ I ask Martha.
‘Why, what are you thinking?’
‘I’m not quite sure,’ I say. ‘But … Letitia, do you happen to have a few spare dining tables?’
‘I’ve got some in storage,’ she says. ‘In the basement.’
Martha looks like she’s about to faint. ‘Storage!’ she says. ‘There’s storage!’
‘Lead the way,’ I say to Letitia. ‘And we need to collect some assistants en route. I have just the people.’
The rude sandal-wearers who rolled their eyes at me are called Rupert and Aurora, I have discovered (thanks to thin party-walls). I knock firmly on their door, with Letitia and Martha on either side of me.
Rupert answers and looks immediately wrongfooted. He pats absently at his rounded belly and tucks his hair behind his ears.
‘Umm, hi,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name – Isla, was it?’
‘Eileen,’ I say. ‘Eileen Cotton. This is Martha, and Letitia. And you are?’
‘Rupert,’ he says, offering me his hand. It’s splattered with paint.