Things I Want My Daughters to Know_ A Novel - Elizabeth Noble [10]
Lisa
The letter was stuck to the outside of a rectangular box, about one foot square. It was tied with a wide green ribbon. Just the packaging was a reminder—Barbara always wrapped things beautifully. An organza ribbon, or a wax seal, or plain brown paper with sprigs of lavender tied in utilitarian string. It was her signature. Lisa left the package there while she undressed and slipped naked underneath the duvet. She looked at it for a moment, almost afraid of it, and then slipped the letter out of its envelope, her hand faltering as she unfolded it. Mum’s writing, as familiar as her own, neat and rounded on the page.
My lovely Lisa,
We’re the closest, you and me, in many ways. I think we’re a lot alike. You’re my firstborn child, and the person who first showed me the miracle of this love a mother has for her child. You made every morning Christmas morning. Thank you for that. There’s lots of things I don’t even think I need to say to you, because I think you know them already. I love you. So much. You’re the strongest, I think. Too strong for your own good, maybe. Ask Andy about that sometime. By the way, I love him—did I ever tell you that? So to you, my darling girl, a request, instead of a bequest. Look after your sisters for me. Look after Mark. And let someone look after you.
Mum
P.S. Re the contents of the box: you’re right—it would have been a waste. Wear it when you dance like no one’s watching.
Inside the box, neatly folded on white tissue paper, was the emerald green Ben de Lisi dress.
ANDY ANSWERED THE PHONE ON THE SECOND RING. LISA’S VOICE sounded muffled and hoarse.
“That was quick,” Lisa said.
“I thought it might be you.”
“It’s me.”
“Hello, me.”
“What you doing?”
“Watching footie. You?”
“Calling you.”
“How was it?”
“I’m sorry I asked you not to come.”
“That’s okay.”
“It’s not okay, Andy. It was stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I don’t think you really were thinking. I don’t mean that to sound unkind. I just mean that it wasn’t really about thinking, it was more about feeling. You wanted to do it without me, on your own.”
“Don’t be so bloody reasonable with me.”
“Sorry.”
“And don’t be bloody sorry.”
Silence.
“It’s me who should be sorry.” She paused. “I wish you had been here.”
“Me, too.”
For just a while Lisa sat with the phone and listened to Andy breathing, which was almost as comforting as an embrace. Then she sighed.
“So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here.” He was being so careful of her.
“Good night.”
“Good night, Lisa.”
HE’D HEARD A BREAK IN HER VOICE WHEN SHE SAID THAT LAST word, and that was all he needed. He hadn’t been watching footie. He’d been sitting on the sofa in front of the footie, but that wasn’t the same thing. Now he stood up, grabbed his car keys from the stand by the front door, and went where his mind and his heart had been all day.
As he drove, a little too fast, he listened to the radio, a little too loud, and wondered, not for the first time in the last two years, what the hell was going on in Lisa’s head.
She wasn’t like any woman he’d known before. The highs were higher and the lows were lower. They’d been friends first, before they were lovers. They’d met at work; they’d both been with other people. Nothing serious, but it meant romance was off the agenda and that they got to know each other, pretty well, before anything happened. He knew that she was clever and fierce and stubborn and sharp and that she didn’t suffer fools gladly and that she sometimes took three sugars in her coffee when she was hungover, which was not infrequently. She was funny and sarcastic, but never cruel. She was good company—no, she was great company.
One day a friend of theirs was made redundant, out of the blue. A bunch of them went to the local wine bar to drown their collective sorrows and bitch about senior management. One by one the others had melted away or staggered off and it was the two of them, setting off to catch the night bus together. She was different drunk. In the office she was immaculate and