I nod instead. 'Of course,' I say. 'Have you booked a cabin?'

'Yes, just now,' she says. 'Don't worry, Natasha, I won't make you share with me like the old days,' and she runs her hands awkwardly through her fringe and I feel a pang of guilt, for that is exactly what I was thinking.

'Well, that's great. I'm just going to find Mum then,' I say, and I touch Jay on the shoulder and dash towards the kitchen. Mum is talking to Guy, the Bowler Hat's brother. Her hands are on her hips, she is leaning over him as if she's about to spit at him. They both jump as I stride in.

'There you are,' Mum says, standing upright. Her jaw is set, her green eyes flinty; she is staring at Guy with something approaching loathing and I know the signs. She's about to blow. She blinks,

41

rapidly, as if calming herself down, and she says, 'Nat - darling, my darling, how are you? We need to talk, don't we?' She winds some hair round her finger. I look suspiciously at Guy. 'Everything OK?'

'Yes, absolutely,' Guy says smoothly. 'It's fine. I was just asking your mother about the . . . stuff in the house.'

'The stuff in the house,' I say carefully, because I don't want to be rude. 'Look, I said this to your brother already, and please don't take this the wrong way, but do you really think now's the time to be poking around valuing things here?' He is turning red. 'It's not great timing.' I'm surprised to hear my voice shaking. 'Perhaps you should come back another day.'

Guy turns to my mother, who is staring at her feet. There is a chicken vol-au-vent on the linoleum floor. 'Why doesn't she know?' he says.

Mum says nothing.

'Know what?' I ask.

'That's why it all seems rather abrupt, Natasha. Your grandparents agreed it years ago, that when Frances died something should be established in her name. A charitable foundation, or a gallery. You know, she hasn't had an exhibition for years. It's a disgrace, a painter of her stature. But she's never let them. There was a big show planned for the autumn after Cecily, after she died.' He stops and collects himself, and I remember he must have known her too, that summer. I hadn't thought of that before. 'The country hasn't seen Frances Seymour's work, apart from the two in the Tate Modern and a few in America, for well over forty years.'

I blink, trying to take it in. 'So?'

'Now she's dead, the terms of her will say the foundation should be established as soon as possible. Miranda,' he says crossly. 'You should have told Natasha. She's one of the trustees, for God's sake.'

'Me? I say. 'I don't know anything about painting. I never saw her paint, anyway.'

'It's nothing to do with that. She wanted you to be one of the trustees. You, your mother, and me—' He clears his throat, awkwardly. 'I - I don't quite understand what I've got to do with it, but—'

'Look,' says my mother, her throaty voice cutting across Guy's. 'I get it, OK? I get the whole thing. All I'm saying is, Archie and I would also like to make sure that the house and furniture are sold in the right way. You know, we have got bills to pay out of all of this. And Arvind's nursing home.' She twists the big jade ring she's wearing, and this seems to give her momentum. 'You know, Guy, you've got a bloody nerve, showing up here, trying to tellus what to do, after all these years. I was going to tell Natasha, but you know it's been a busy day.' She shakes her hair, pursing her lips and staring at him in fury, and she does look rather magnificent. 'After all these years,' she says, more quietly. 'You should know that.'

'Fine,' Guy says. He holds his palms up towards her. 'I understand. You're right. We'll discuss it another day.' He looks up and chews his little finger. 'Look, I'm sorry - I didn't think—'

'It's fine,' I say, looking to Mum for confirmation. 'Thank you, Guy.' She is staring at me, but I interpret this as tacit approval of my actions. She's useless at confrontations, though she acts like a diva the whole time.

'Goodbye, Miranda,' Guy says, turning to her. 'It's been a sad day, but it was really lovely to see you again.'

'Well—' Mum blinks slowly, her long, soot-black eyelashes brushing her smooth skin. There is a crumb of mascara on her cheekbone; I stare at it. 'It was lovely to see you again. It's been a long time.'

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He nods, and bows his head at me. 'Natasha, you too.' He clears his throat. 'Once more, I'm sorry if you've thought I've been inappropriate, or anything like that. Let me—' He fumbles in his pocket and takes out a card. 'If you're ever up this way—'

Guy Leighton Antiques & Rare Books Cross Street

London N1

'I'm sure we'll be in touch, about the foundation at the very least.' I take the card. 'Well, thank you, Guy. Thank you.' As if I am a dowager duchess whom he will never be fortunate enough to meet again.

'Goodbye, then,' he says, and shuts the door quietly behind him, with one last apologetic look at my mother.

The room is silent. 'Are you OK?' I say. Mum is blinking back tears.

'I am,' she says. 'I'm just rather tired. It's been a long day. Lots of memories, you know? And I'm worried about you, Natasha.'

She says it quietly, without tossing her hair or rolling her eyes or trying to get something. She just looks rather beaten, and it hits me in the solar plexus. I put my arm round her. 'I'm sorry, Mum,' I tell her. 'I wanted to explain about me and Oli, but it was . . . too hard. And then Granny died - I couldn't just drop it into conversation, could I?'

'So what happened?' she says. 'Do you want to tell your old mum about it?'

Mum isn't very good at being a mum out of an Oxo ad. She's better when she's just being a

person.

'He's been sleeping with someone else,' I say. 'An affair?' Mum's eyes are wide open now.

'No.' I shake my head. 'A girl at work. It was a couple of months ago. He says it's nothing. It's

over.'

'Ohh!' my mother says, her voice high, as if that's that then. 'Right.' I look at her.

'That's absolutely awful,' she adds. 'You poor thing.'

I can't believe I'm having this conversation with her; in fact I remember one of the reasons why I dreaded telling her in the first place. Mum absolutely adores Oli. They get on really well. I often think they'd have a better time without me there. He thinks she's hilarious, wonderful, and she plays up to it, and they get drunk together and egg each other on, like old boozers in a pub, and I sit there, wearily watching them, feeling like a beige carpet in a Persian rug shop.

There's a frown puckering her forehead. I say, 'I think he wants to come back, but I don't know what to say if he asks. I just don't know if I can trust him.'

'Hmm,' says my mum, one finger on her cheek as if consider ing this point seriously, and I remember the times I'd ask her when she'd be back home from a party or dinner with friends. 'Hmm . . .' she'd say, finger on cheek, and after a long pause, 'not late, darling. Not too late.' And then, when I'd finally got to sleep, worn out by being terrified by noises inside the flat that I thought were rats or sinister intruders, and of being terrified by noises outside the flat that I knew were masked robbers or deranged psychopaths, in the dark still hours of the early morning I'd hear the creak of the door and the soft tap on the parquet floor as she crept past my room to her bed. 'Hmm . . . I'm just not sure.'

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'I am,' I say. 'I can't trust him. I can't have him back if I don't trust him.'

'He's your husband, and he looks after you, and you don't have to worry about anything,' Mum says sharply. 'I think you need to look at it like that instead, Natasha. I mean, he didn'tkill anyone, you know. He slept with someone. He's a good husband.'

'What?' I am momentarily stunned, as though this is a modern-day version ofGigi and I am Leslie Caron and should just put up with it. 'He pays for our nice life, for my new boots, I should just shut up,

right?'

She stares at me defiantly. 'Sometimes, darling, I think you just don't get it at all. I'm just saying it's hard, being on your own.'