“She would have killed us,” Dudu told Françoise. “What if she finds us?”
“She must never find us. She will never find us,” said Françoise.
Dudu got them on to a waiting list that was ten pages long for a room in the house. The Catholic nun who managed the house “really likes me,” Dudu had told Françoise. “I can be sweet,” she said, smiling that sweet, sweet smile.
Now they walk up the staircase and are met by shouting when they get to the second floor. The door to their room is open. There is a whole family inside, camped out and noisy in the dingy light. A woman is cooking on their two-plate stove. Françoise feels Dudu tense beside her. “Wait, Dudu,” she warns her and pulls her sister away and down the corridor to the next room.
The woman, from Congo, comes out wrapped in a cloth. She has been washing. She is apologetic but she shrugs. “There was nothing I could do. Nothing. They gave the room away.” A smell of bodies rises from the damp heat of the room behind her.
“But I paid,” says Françoise, “I paid.” She is close to tears now.
“They moved in. I couldn’t stop them. The man is crazy,” the woman says.
When Françoise turns around Dudu isn’t by her side any more. She hears her sister’s voice coming from inside their old room. When she looks in Dudu is standing close to the woman who is cooking on their two-plate stove. She is gripping her arm, her nails biting into her flesh, and speaking quickly in a low voice. A toddler is crying at the woman’s feet. There is sickness in the air. Françoise can’t hear what Dudu is saying.
By that night the family has moved out and Françoise and Dudu are trying to get rid of the smell of cooking, of them.
“What did you tell them?” asks Françoise but Dudu won’t say.
“I’m good, aren’t I? I can look after you. Stick with me.”
“Stop talking like that,” says Françoise, “like a TV show.”
Françoise goes down to the Chinese shop and buys airtime so that she can try Timothy’s phone again.
The person you are calling is unavailable. Please try again later.
The next morning Dudu gets their TV and radio back. In a strange change of heart she tells Françoise that she is going back to school and that she is going to be top of her class. Françoise is sceptical. Dudu has made lots of promises in her short life.
As they are leaving the woman from next door passes them in the corridor. “I forgot to tell you yesterday. A man came looking for you when you were away.” She is looking at Françoise.
“What did he look like?”
“He was white,” she says.
Stella
Loss – Stella types the word.
“Write about something you know,” Winter, editor of Verve, had told her. “Write about losing a parent. Something you connect to, Stella. Something readers will connect to. Something authentic.”
You mean truthful, thought Stella, whose article on child-rearing had raised eyebrows in the office.
The death of Stella’s mother was something Winter couldn’t doubt. Stella had collapsed at work when she heard the news. It was worse, said Marge, because Stella was an only child and had never known her father. There was no one to share the pain with.
The office had bought her flowers. Everyone was really understanding. Marge had come to the funeral. Stella had taken time off work, then come back too soon, thinking she was ready, only to find herself sitting staring at blank pages, crying through boxes of Marge’s tissues. There had been an obituary. Timothy had written it. It was lovely and Stella had pinned it up on her notice board but it made her cry even more. Even Winter had read it and made a sympathetic noise.
Loss.
Five things you would like to ask your mother if she were still alive.
She changes five to ten.
Ten quantifiable points to live by.
Ten things I know for sure.
Ten ways to please your partner.
Ten mix and match outfits for every occasion.
They loved that at the magazine. People like to tick things off, Winter told her. It makes them feel positive, like they are accomplishing. Ask your parents before it’s too late: How did they meet? What was their favourite song? What were their hopes and dreams? What was your mother’s secret ingredient for that stew? How much do you really know about your parents’ lives? It’s not too late to find out . . .
Loss – something snatched away. Disbelief. Outrage. A hole filled with the cold water of sadness.
Number one holiday destination? Stella knew the answer to that – India. A bohemian dream to her mother. A health nightmare to Stella.
Stella checks her emails again but there is still no message from Timothy. She stares at her computer screen but she can’t find any words to follow Loss.
She picks up the invitation to Ivor’s exhibition and balances it against her stationery holder. Françoise stares out at her, her skin black and burnished against the creamy white paper, her expression inscrutable.
Just before lunch, Winter swishes into the office, all lemon scent, sleek hair, endless legs and a takeaway cappuccino in hand. Stella starts typing – nonsense words. When Winter is safely behind her glass wall Stella stops and starts doodling on her notepad. An insect appears out of the squiggle of lines and shading – a praying mantis. Along the side she writes their names: Timothy, Françoise, Luke, Jude and Ivor. Then she crosses out Ivor. She looks up to see Marge across in the design section mouthing at her. “What are you doing?” Stella shakes her head and then looks back at her pad. She writes University? next to Jude’s name. They might have her contact details. Françoise? Only Timothy knew where she was. But Timothy wasn’t answering his messages. Luke? She stops – a hollow feeling in her core. Regret? Sadness? Jealousy?
Marge walks past on the way to the toilet. “How much have you written? We’re waiting for it in DTP.” She reads over Stella’s shoulder.
What will your obituary say about you?
“Morbid,” she says after reading Stella’s first line.
“It’s about losing a parent. I thought of obituaries. It’s Timothy – he hasn’t answered my emails, Marge.”
“Are you still hungover? Don’t tell me you stayed at home all weekend?” Marge never actually listens to anything.
“Oh, God,” says Stella, looking up to see that Winter is headed straight for her.
Think about what you would like someone to write in your obituary. Then live your life accordingly.
As she types a shadow of doubt crosses her mind. She feels like she has heard this exact line before. Her boss, clip file in hand, is standing over her. Stella covers the praying mantis she has drawn with her arm like a guilty child.
Her boss is – cleansed – toned – moisturised. Her lemony scent is “transporting”. Her hair is “perfect”.
“Perfect” is Susan Winter’s favourite word. Stella wants the word. She wants to spritz her life with it and wipe away the grime. “Perfect” plumps up duvets and fluffs up perfectly white towels. It whips up delicious meals. It has romantic weekends with no terrible arguments. It has a career, finds a husband before it turns forty and has babies just in time – twins, one boy, one girl. Perfect, perfect, perfect.
“Is the article finished?”
“Monday?”
“At