‘I did. I think it was good for me. I spend too much time at home with my own thoughts, you know?’
He reached out a hand and touched my hair. ‘You deserve to be happy, Nat.’
I smiled at him, at the man I’d married, the man I loved. Yes, I do deserve to be happy. Happy with you. That’s what I signed up to when we got married. Please don’t go. Please stay. Please pretend none of this has happened and let’s try again.
‘I better make a move,’ he said.
‘How’s your hernia?’ I asked. Wow, Nat, great conversation starter.
He smiled. ‘It’s fine. I’m just waiting on the date for my op.’
I nodded. ‘Sorry for my outburst last week, by the way. My brain went into overdrive.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry. I should have told you but what with everything …’ His voice trailed off. ‘Listen, I know we need to talk and I promise we will soon. We’ll sort everything out.’
I nodded. ‘We usually do.’
He put his arms around me and kissed the top of my head before he left. I stood for a moment in the hall watching the shape of him disappear, listening to his car drive off and then my hand felt where he’d left the kiss and I hugged myself. I stayed like that for a moment as if movement would disturb the feeling. Dan was still in my life and I could tell he still cared about me. All I had to do was to prove that this was a mere bump in the road, that I was the one – the all-new, all-singing, sexy, interesting wife, who he’d lost sight of. I was going to get Dan’s attention again and I knew exactly how to do it.
CAROLINE
As I drove to the nursing home on a bright spring morning, I sang along to the Adele song on the radio. I wouldn’t normally sing in the car but last night’s rehearsal had rekindled my love of singing, leaving me feeling refreshed and ready to face the inevitable adversity of today’s visit. Goodness only knows that I needed a little positive energy for what lay ahead. I was fully expecting an argument but I was ready too.
I couldn’t have been happier with our first choir rehearsal. It would be a challenge to transform us into a proper choir but all in all, it had gone much better than I’d expected. The standard of singing was reasonably high and I could see that Guy was the perfect man to run it. I had even found talking to Natalie a surprising pleasure. She was something of an emotional train-wreck and I was happy that I’d been able to help her with a little marriage guidance.
When I got home from choir, I had flicked my phone into life to see that I’d had three missed calls and a voicemail message from the home. I recognised Peter Jarvis’ humourless tone immediately.
‘Mrs Taylor, we believe you’re coming in to see your mother tomorrow. We need to have an urgent meeting to discuss her care options.’
Care options? It sounded so innocuous. I knew what they were going to say.
‘Your mother’s behaviour is increasingly challenging, we’re no longer able to cope with her frequent outbursts. We may need to re-think.’
Re-think all you want. You knew the deal when you took her in and I pay you an extortionate amount to care for her. Take the money and get on with it.
The sun was shining as I pulled into the drive and one of the gardeners was planting some geraniums, begonias and snapdragons ready for the summer. All looked calm and lovely. I made my way through the door into the bright entrance hall. St Bartholomew’s corridors bore the sharp tangy smell of old age underpinned by the cabbagey whiff of whatever meal had just been consumed. I loathed everything about the place but especially the smell. I always breathed through my mouth when I visited but could still detect the stench on my clothes when I got home.
The home itself was a pleasant enough chalet-style building with wide corridors and lots of windows looking out towards a lovely garden. Apart from being a nice enough place to live, I had chosen it because they had a specialist team who could deal with people with dementia. At least that’s what they’d told me. However, given the number of calls I had to field because my mother was being difficult, I was starting to wonder.
I visited once a month because to be honest, that’s all I could take. Quite apart from the shifting sands of my relationship with my mother, I couldn’t bear to spend any more time than necessary in this place. It made me consider things I didn’t want to think about – Zimmer frames, wrinkles and the pervasive stench of urine. This wasn’t my world. I was young and fit and didn’t want to be reminded of the inevitability of old age. Call me shallow, call me unfeeling but spend an hour in the company of my mother and you would feel the same.
The receptionist looked up at me from behind black-framed glasses that didn’t suit her. She acknowledged me with a brief smile of recognition. There was judgement behind that smile.
‘Good morning, Mrs Taylor. If you could just sign in, I’ll let Peter know you’re here.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied, taking the pen from its holder. I wrote my name before taking a step back into the waiting area, doing my best to ignore the neat piles of Saga magazines.
‘Mrs Taylor,’ said a voice behind me. I turned to see Peter Jarvis, manager of the home. He didn’t even try to smile. ‘Shall we go into my office?’
I followed him along the corridor. When I first came here to look round, they had offered me tea and cake. I could remember rooms full of snowy-white-haired old ladies and well-turned-out gentlemen doing stimulating activities, smiling and happy. This time, there was no offer of tea and all I could smell was that day’s lunch, which reminded me of cat food. My stomach flipped.
Peter ushered me into his office and heaved his large backside onto the chair behind his desk. I took my place opposite him, noticing the certificates rewarding ‘excellence in care’ on the wall and a framed photograph on the desk of his similarly fat wife and two chubby children.
He pressed his fingers together and looked at me. ‘Mrs Taylor, I have to tell you that we have a problem. Did you get my call last night?’
I was irritated by his accusatory tone. How dare he talk to me in this way? I decided that attack was the best form of defence. ‘We most certainly do have a problem,’ I replied. ‘I pay a great deal of money for my mother’s care and I do not expect to be called in the evenings because your staff are unable to do their job.’
He blinked at me in surprise before regaining his composure. ‘Your mother tried to stab one of our staff with a pair of nail scissors.’
It was my turn to be surprised now. My mother had certainly been trying in the past but it was mostly verbal abuse. She had never tried anything physical. ‘I see.’ I wasn’t sure what else to say.
‘So you can understand that we have a problem. I appreciate that your mother requires specialist care but I cannot have my staff placed in danger.’
‘Where is she now?’ I asked. I had visions of her locked in a padded cell.
‘In her room. We had to call out a doctor to sedate her. It took two nurses to restrain her. She’s very strong.’
I felt an odd sense of pride at this, even though I knew it was wholly inappropriate. ‘I take it she didn’t actually hurt anyone?’
He shook his head. ‘Our staff are well trained and fortunately the nurse in question saw what was happening and reacted quickly. She managed to get the scissors from her but your mother kept trying to fight them, which is why we had to call the doctor, unfortunately.’
‘Can I see her?’ I asked.
‘She may be a little sleepy but