“He was telling us this morning about all the wonderful charity work she does. She must have a heart of gold!”
As Mum prattles on, I tune out and remember a conversation I had with Luke’s stepmum, Annabel, when she and his dad came out to visit us.
I completely adore Annabel. She’s very different from Elinor, much softer and quieter, but with a lovely smile that lights up her whole face. She and Luke’s father live in a sleepy area of Devon near the beach, and I really wish we could spend more time with them. But Luke left home at eighteen, and he hardly ever goes back. In fact, I get the feeling he thinks his father slightly wasted his life by settling down as a provincial lawyer, instead of conquering the world.
When they came to New York, Annabel and I ended up having an afternoon alone together. We walked around Central Park talking about loads of different things, and it seemed as though no subject was off-limits. So at last I took a deep breath and asked her what I’ve always wanted to know — which is how she can stand Luke being so dazzled by Elinor. I mean, Elinor may be his biological mother, but Annabel has been there for him all his life. She was the one who looked after him when he was ill and helped him with his homework and cooked his supper every night. And now she’s been pushed aside.
For an instant I could see the pain in Annabel’s face. But then she kind of smiled and said she completely understood it. That Luke had been desperate to know his real mother since he was a tiny child, and now that he was getting the chance to spend time with her, he should be allowed to enjoy it.
“Imagine your fairy godmother came along,” she said. “Wouldn’t you be dazzled? Wouldn’t you forget about everyone else for a while? He needs this time with her.”
“She’s not his fairy godmother!” I retorted. “She’s the wicked old witch!”
“Becky, she’s his natural mother,” Annabel said, with a gentle reproof. Then she changed the subject. She wouldn’t bitch about Elinor, or anything.
Annabel is a saint.
“It’s such a shame they didn’t get to see each other while Luke was growing up!” Mum is saying. “What a tragic story.” She lowers her voice, even though Luke’s left the house. “Luke was telling me only this morning how his mother was desperate to take him with her to America. But her new American husband wouldn’t allow it! Poor woman. She must have been in misery. Leaving her child behind!”
“Well, yes, maybe,” I say, feeling a slight rebellion. “Except… she didn’t have to leave, did she? If she was in so much misery, why didn’t she tell the new husband where to go?”
Mum looks at me in surprise. “That’s very harsh, Becky.”
“Oh… I suppose so.” I give a little shrug and reach for my lip liner.
I don’t want to stir things up before we even begin. So I won’t say what I really think, which is that Elinor never showed any interest in Luke until his PR company started doing so well in New York. Luke has always been desperate to impress her — in fact, that’s the real reason he expanded to New York in the first place, though he won’t admit it. But she completely ignored him, like the cow she is, until he started winning a few really big contracts and being mentioned in the papers and she suddenly realized he could be useful to her. Just before Christmas, she started her own charity — the Elinor Sherman Foundation — and made Luke a director. Then she had a great big gala concert to launch it — and guess who spent about twenty-five hours a day helping her out with it until he was so exhausted, Christmas was a complete washout?
But I can’t say anything to him about it. When I once brought up the subject, Luke got all defensive and said I’d always had a problem with his mother (which is kind of true) and she was sacrificing loads of her time to help the needy and what more did I want, blood?
To which I couldn’t really find a reply.
“She’s probably a very lonely woman,” Mum is musing. “Poor thing, all on her own. Living in her little flat. Does she have a cat to keep her company?”
“Mum…” I put a hand to my head. “Elinor doesn’t live in a ‘little flat.’ It’s a duplex on Park Avenue.”
“A duplex? What — like a maisonette?” Mum pulls a sympathetic little face. “Oh, but it’s not the same as a nice house, is it?”
Oh, I give up. There’s no point.
As we walk into the foyer at Claridges, it’s full of smart people having tea. Waiters in gray jackets are striding around with green and white striped teapots, and everyone’s chattering brightly and I can’t see Luke or Elinor anywhere. As I peer around, I’m seized by sudden hope. Maybe they’re not here. Maybe Elinor couldn’t make it! We can just go and have a nice cup of tea on our own! Thank God for—
“Becky?”
I swivel round — and my heart sinks. There they are, on a sofa in the corner. Luke’s wearing that radiant expression he gets whenever he sees his mother, and Elinor’s sitting on the edge of her seat in a houndstooth suit trimmed with fur. Her hair is a stiff lacquered helmet and her legs, encased in pale stockings, seem to have got even thinner. She looks up, apparently expressionless — but I can see from the flicker of her eyelids that she’s giving both Mum and Dad the Manhattan Onceover.
“Is that her?” whispers Mum in astonishment, as we give our coats in. “Goodness! She’s very… young!”
“No, she’s not,” I mutter. “She’s had a lot of help.”