She looked up to see Dylan watching her.
“Yeah, fine. Come on, Hex, we’d better head home.”
They finished their meals and left the restaurant, walking back toward Piccadilly Circus.
“This is my stop. I’m heading in the other direction,” Dylan said as they reached the bottom of Regent Street.
“Can’t you come back with us?” Hector said. “I want to hear your loud music.”
“Not today. I’m afraid I’ve got to get to another client.”
Libby nodded good-bye. Dylan had been less hostile than she’d expected today, and weirdly great with Hector, but she was still glad they didn’t have to ride all the way back together.
“Bye, Dylan!” Hector said as Libby took his hand and led him across the road.
“Libby!”
She heard her name being shouted as she reached the far pavement, and turned back to see Dylan watching her through the traffic.
“Same time, same place on Friday?”
Before Libby could answer, an 88 drew up at the stop and Dylan disappeared from view.
CHAPTER
13
PEGGY
David came to see me on Sunday.
It’s been a while since he’s visited. Not that I blame him, of course. He’s been under so much pressure with work, and you know how Emma keeps him on such a tight rein; it’s remarkable she let him out the house. Honestly, I know I shouldn’t speak ill of my own daughter-in-law, but I don’t know how he’s put up with her all these years, I really don’t. I was a bit worried he was going to bring her too, but thankfully he called on Friday to say she had a cold and couldn’t come.
He was coming for lunch, so I went shopping to get all his favorites in. I decided to do lamb chops with mashed potatoes (creamy, the way he likes them), followed by sherry trifle. It’s a while since I’ve made a trifle and I had to go to three different shops to try to find those sponge fingers; nobody seems to sell them anymore. I was going to use tinned fruit, like I always have for us, but then I remembered that last time I made it Emma made a comment, so I bought fresh fruit instead. Cost me a bleedin’ fortune, but you know me, only the best for my boy.
I tidied the flat from top to bottom—not that it was dirty in the first place, but I wanted to make sure it was spotless. I even dusted the old pictures, which, between you and me, I usually skip over. It was strange looking at mine up close again. I walk past them every day but never pay them any attention when there are much better ones in the flat. But today I did stop and look at them while I cleaned, and honestly, Percy, they weren’t half bad. Some of the portraits I did in the bus series were pretty decent, and there’s that one,The Dreamer, which wouldn’t have looked totally out of place in the corner of some small art gallery somewhere.
And I know you’ll say “I told you so,” because to be fair, love, you always did say I had talent; I could just never see it myself. I suppose that’s partly my dad’s fault; when you’ve grown up with someone telling you you’re wasting your time, it’s hard to see past that. But also, I think perhaps it was easier for me to think I wasn’t any good, so it made the decision to give up a little less painful. Because if I’d truly believed I was talented, that I could have achieved things in my life, then it would have been so much harder to walk away from it all when I had to. Does that make sense?
Besides, it’s not like I had a choice. Once I was pregnant with David, there was no way I could have carried on chasing silly dreams of being an artist. It’s different nowadays: women have all sorts of careers while having children—just look at our Maisie—but you have to remember what it was like back then. Anyway, I loved being a mum, as you know better than anyone. And I love being a grandmother and great-grandmother too, even if they are on the other side of the world.
Which reminds me: did I tell you that David said Maisie and the kids might come back for Christmas? I immediatelystarted getting excited, thinking about what presents to get the boys—it’s two years since I’ve seen them, so I have no idea what they’re into these days—and then David told me off for getting carried away and said it might not happen. Still, I thought I might pop down to Argos next week and have a little look at their catalog. I know it’s seven months early, but there’s no harm doing a bit of research, is there?
Anyway, it was lovely to see David yesterday. He told me all his news. Apparently, he was up for some promotion at work, but they passed him over for someone half his age, which seems crazy to me. He said he might retire in a few years’ time, but Emma isn’t keen. And he gave me a gorgeous scarf for my birthday. It’s very similar to the one he got me last year, but I love it and you can never have too many scarves. I put it straight in the drawer with the others, to keep it safe.
David didn’t stay for lunch in the end. He said he’d love to, but he had to get back because they had friends coming over for dinner. So it looks like I’m going to be eating sherry trifle on my own for a while.
CHAPTER
14
On Friday evening, Rebecca and Tom went out for dinner, leaving Libby to babysit Hector. She ordered herself an Indian takeaway and collapsed in front of the TV while she waited for it to arrive. It had been a busy day: she and Dylan had started at Piccadilly Circus, where they’d finished with Hector on Wednesday, then put up posters from Leicester Square, along Haymarket to Trafalgar Square, then down Whitehall to the Houses of Parliament. As they worked, they chatted about books, music, and films, and while they had quite different tastes, Libby was surprised that Dylan didn’t mock her choices as she’d expected him to. He even promised to watchTitanicafter Libby spent ten minutes giving an impassioned speech about why it was so good. They parted ways under Big Ben, Libby to head back north and Dylan to go to his next job south. And as they said good-bye, Dylan gave Libby his number and said he’d see her at the usual bus stop on Monday morning. Libby was bewildered as to why, but there was no doubt it was much quicker with Dylan’s help. And whilst he was a bit unpredictable, she’d enjoyed his easy chat.
The takeaway arrived, and Libby carried it through to the kitchen and served it on a plate. As she was loading up her firstforkful, savoring the delicious smell after weeks of steamed fish and vegetables, she saw her phone screen light up. For a second Libby wondered if it was someone messaging about Frank’s girl, but when she picked up the phone, her heart leaped.
Simon.
It was exactly four weeks since that awful dinner, and two weeks since the phone call where he’d asked her to go back to work. What could he want now, at eight o’clock on a Friday night? Libby took a deep breath before she answered.