It’s Who We Are Read online

  To my darling Davy – for more than thirty

  wonderful years of love, laughter and support

  First published in Great Britain in 2018

  Copyright © 2018 Christine Webber

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic method without the prior written consent of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews, and other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Cover design by Jessica Bell Book Cover Designs.

  Published by On Call

  ISBN 978-0-9954540-4-0

  All characters and locations in this book – apart from all those clearly in the public domain – are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  About the Author

  Book Club Questions

  Acknowledgements

  Writing a novel is just the beginning. The important stuff is done by a wide range of experts and I want to thank all of them for the fantastic work that they do.

  Clays are a marvellous company who have been producing beautiful books for over two centuries. I am so delighted that they print mine; special thanks go to the wonderful Georgina Aldridge who heads up the indie team – and who is not only brilliant at what she does, but an absolute delight to work with. I am also deeply grateful to Helen Baggott for her painstaking editing and proofreading. I am trying to persuade her to live with me so that she can dispense her wisdom any time I need it – which is often – but her other authors will be pleased to know that she has resisted this offer. I also want to thank Jessica Bell for designing the perfect cover.

  I am thrilled that the hugely talented and best-selling author Elly James has provided me with such a generous cover quote. Thanks so much, Elly.

  Big thanks too to Daniel Knight of the BORN Group for his typesetting skills.

  I would also like to mention the writers’ groups that I could not do without: The Alliance of Independent Authors, Book Connectors, The Creativist Café and Books for Older Readers.

  Finally, heartfelt thanks to all my friends and family who were very supportive of my last effort, Who’d Have Thought It? – I hope you will be equally kind about It’s Who We Are. Particular gratitude is due to my great mate Helen McDermott for all her marketing prowess and determination!

  Prologue

  For a brief and bizarre moment, I think she’s me.

  The overhead lights on the station are flickering on and off – probably because of the storm outside – making the walkway beside Boots unusually dark. So I can’t tell whether the shadowy images ahead are real people, or shop-window reflections.

  My heart starts thumping as the figure strides towards me. I note that we’re both wearing black trilby hats and long leather boots. But there the similarity ends. She’s young; young enough to be my daughter. And she looks how I would like to look, and how – perhaps – I once did. She gazes at me. It’s unsettling, so I stop and rummage in my bag for nothing in particular.

  ‘Get a grip, Wendy,’ I mutter. But then I reassure myself that weird notions are justifiable, given that less than an hour ago I called ‘time’ on my twenty-seven-year-old marriage.

  I’m trembling. Probably the last thing I need is caffeine, but I walk into Costa Coffee and buy a Flat White to take onto the train.

  Making my way back through the church, having shaken hands with various people at the front door, I try to avoid chatting with those of my flock who linger.

  ‘Father Michael!’ someone calls.

  I’m aware that my response to this parishioner’s news that she’s now a grandmother is somewhat automatic. ‘Jolly good! It’ll be the christening soon then!’

  Another woman of similar age presses a cake tin into my hands.

  ‘How kind! Goodness, I’ll be looking like a sponge cake soon!’

  Someone else wants a meeting.

  ‘Can we speak about it tomorrow?’

  In the sacristy, I push the cake into the parish cupboard; it will cheer up the Finance Committee later. Then I tear off my vestments and race out of the building and round to the presbytery. Once inside the front door, I lean on it, breathing deeply.

  It’s a blessing that the curate and elderly priest who share the house are out, and that I have time to calm myself before this afternoon’s meeting.

  As often happens these days, my mind turns to Father Brian from my first parish. I find it hard to accept that at fifty-five, I’m older than he was then. One Christmas, over too many glasses of port, he had confessed how celibacy had become harder with age. ‘It’s easy when you’re young and planning to change the world,’ he had claimed, before expanding on his feelings of regret at the lack of a wife and family.

  I couldn’t identify with his feelings then, but I do now. Only yesterday, my arms felt painfully empty when, having baptized a baby, I handed him back to his family. Everyone else has partners, kids, grandchildren. Of course I feel valued, but only as Michael the priest, not Michael the man.

  Araminta was at Mass. Every day, I long for her to be there. But, when she is, I go to pieces. One morning I was in such a state that I almost forgot the Gloria. I need to sort my head out. But how?

  I hadn’t realised that being selected as the local prospective parliamentary candidate for the Green Party would be such a big deal. I’m amazed that it’s made the front page of the Eastern Daily Press.

  Perhaps journalists are hoping for a ‘family conflict’ story. My father, after all, is well-known as a very right-wing Tory peer. Predictably, he’s incensed with my decision. Marigold says he’s had to take double the dose of his blood pressure medicine.

  I’m relieved though that finally I’ve stood up for myself, and made it plain that looking after the family business isn’t enough for me. It’s not that there aren’t challenges – especially with the EU referendum going the way it did – but my life had insufficient purpose and that’s changed now.

  I’m planning to promote Geoff, my second-in-command at Baldry’s, which will free up some of my time. My father shouldn’t mind; he’s never believed I’m up to the job. I’ve often wondered why, when he retired, he insisted I take over – which meant leaving London and my job in publishing. He could have employed a proper business manager and left me in the capital doing what I enjoyed.

  My mobile’s ringing. It takes several seconds to find it beneath a mound of papers. I see from the display that Marigold is phoning me; my wife is a very persistent woman. She obviously feels she hasn’t had her full say. Reluctantly, I press ‘Accept The Call’.

  ‘Philip!’ She sounds furious. I swing my feet onto my desk. This will take a while.

  I put down the teapot, to answ
er the phone. At the other end, Mum is full of a story in today’s Eastern Daily Press about Philip Baldry becoming a Green candidate.

  I hear myself make a harrumphing sound, which I realise confirms that I’m now officially old. Young people don’t harrumph, do they?

  ‘He always was an odious little prick,’ I growl when she draws breath.

  ‘Julian! You and he used to be such pals.’

  ‘A very long time ago.’

  ‘I never understood what went wrong.’

  ‘I don’t remember myself now.’ This is a lie because I recall precisely why I ended our friendship.

  We chat for a while – well, she talks, and I listen while doing some calf and hamstring stretches. I’ve got a worrying niggle in my left leg which probably means I pulled something at my class earlier. It’s pointless going to the doctor about it. Last time I went, he just said, ‘Well, if you must do ballet at fifty-six!’ But I won’t give it up. I’ve seen friends abandon active hobbies and become doddery overnight.

  Somewhat surprisingly, my indefatigable seventy-eight-year-old mother suddenly decides she’s tired and needs to lie down, and we end with me saying, ‘Love you, Mum,’ which I truly do.

  I make my tea and sip it slowly while enjoying a large slab of fruit cake. Life is more leisurely these days. Too much so; the schedule of an ageing freelance singer tends to have more gaps in it than bookings. I’ve still got Extra Chorus jobs at Covent Garden, and I get some sessions on commercials and so on, but I worry that my voice isn’t what it was. Fortunately, I’m still one of the best sight-readers in the business, so hopefully I’ll keep going for a while. And, on the plus side, I have a new paid job as Musical Director of a good amateur choir. It’s only one evening a week, but it’s bucked me up no end. To be honest, Rhys, the young accompanist, is part of the attraction. Far too young for me of course, but still.

  I’ve been thinking about new repertoire for the choir so I’m going out to Westminster Music Library shortly to look at scores. I’m sure most choral directors get their ideas off YouTube these days! But I loved that library when I was a music student, so it’ll be a trip down memory lane. And there’ll be more nostalgia later; I see from the Radio Times that there’s an old production of Tosca on the box later. I had a small role in that. It’ll be good to see it again.

  I’m tired, but then my daughter Hannah and I spent the whole of yesterday beginning the clear-up of my father’s house. And I got up at the crack of dawn today to make breakfast for her before she caught an early train back to London.

  After she’d gone, I went to Mass. Father Michael was saying it, but there was no opportunity to talk to him. I’ve no idea where the afternoon went, but this evening, I saw a patient for a ‘farewell’ session. She’s much more confident than when she came to me nine months ago, and she said, ‘Araminta, you haven’t just been a therapist, you’ve been the best support of my life!’

  Moments like that make the job worthwhile, though I do feel it’s time for a change of career. But at the age of fifty-three, what can I do?

  It seems cold after all the rain we had earlier and I wonder if it’s too early yet to go to bed. It’s at moments like this that I feel the full impact of widowhood. I heard Esther Rantzen on Woman’s Hour one morning saying that since her husband died she’s found plenty of people to do things with, but no one to do nothing with. So true. Still, I noticed earlier that Tosca is on Sky Arts. I pour myself a large glass of Rioja and curl up in an armchair to watch it.

  One of the small parts is being sung by a rather rotund chap whose face seems vaguely familiar. The music is absolutely wonderful. As wintry evenings in late October go, this isn’t a bad one.

  Chapter One

  The 9.30 train to Norwich stuttered once or twice as it pulled out of Liverpool Street station, but gradually gathered momentum, and by the time it passed London’s Olympic stadium it was bowling along quite jauntily. Wendy removed her trilby hat and fluffed up her chin-length hair with her hands while peering down the length of the railway carriage. She could see no one she knew, but she sensed the presence of past passengers; this was, after all, a train-line populated with personal ghosts.

  Three decades ago, before her career took her away from Anglia Television to the studios of ITN in the capital, she must have made this journey hundreds of times. Then, there had always been colleagues for company, but those days were long gone, as were some of the colleagues.

  She felt unnerved by the events of her morning, and particularly disquieted by that preternatural moment when she had ‘seen’ her younger self walking towards her. Were she to describe it to her twins they would, she knew, giggle and roll their eyes at each other.

  Her mind settled onto her lovely boys and she wondered how and when she would tell them about the divorce. Daniel’s day had yet to begin at Harvard Business School. And Rhys, who still lived with her and Robert, had slept through the awkward last breakfast she had had with his father.

  ‘But why this time?’ Robert had pressed her. ‘You know you’re the only one who matters. You also know I’ve always been a bad boy.’ As he spoke the last two words, he had attempted to put his arms around her and nuzzle the back of her neck. She had felt his look of puzzlement as she had shaken him off and continued making porridge for two.

  ‘We had all this out last night,’ she had replied, refusing to turn and face him. ‘It’s true that each affair has hurt slightly less than the previous one. But I’m worn out, Robert. I want to move on with my life.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Things that don’t involve you.’

  Did it happen quite like that? Or was she already rewriting her version of the trauma and imbuing herself with more poise and eloquence?

  They were pulling into Chelmsford already. Defiantly, she rearranged her mind in a bid to eject Robert from it and to focus instead on her visit to her father.

  Her heart gladdened at the thought of him. He had always been such an interesting, clever and honourable man. And now that he had to live alone, because of the dementia that had claimed his wife, he bore his unwanted singledom with fortitude. Wendy wrinkled her nose. ‘Fortitude’ was not a word she tended to use, but it was apt.

  What, she wondered, would he think about the divorce? Better, perhaps, not to go into Robert’s infidelities. What was the point when she had kept them secret for so long?

  She had always found out, of course. At least she assumed that she had known about them all. Robert was hopeless at being discreet. Or maybe, at some level of his consciousness, he had contrived to leave a trail for her to uncover. However, the last one had come as a shock. Foolishly, she had believed that he had stopped ‘playing away’.

  Yesterday had been productive; she had spent it training a group of politicians to be more effective in the media, so that they could make their case on radio and television no matter what was thrown at them by wily interviewers. It was exactly the sort of job she had envisaged enjoying when she had set up her company, BS&T – short for Broadcasting Solutions and Training – nine years ago. In many ways it was as satisfying as directing international television news, but without the heart-thumping tension that accompanies live broadcasting.

  BS&T had started slowly, but had become profitable by the end of the third year, and after that, she had taken the decision to branch into Europe. Surprisingly soon, she had landed a number of lucrative contracts with large corporations. Then, she had spotted a gap in the market for small businesses – and had produced a series of television training podcasts in nine different languages. She had had no idea these would prove so popular. The expansion had led to her employing an extra half-dozen young people from various EU countries, and she had been full of optimism for the future – never for one second expecting that the UK would vote to leave Europe.

  Since the morning of June the twenty-fourth, everything had changed, and she felt a constant undercurrent of anxiety about what was to happen to her bright, enthusiastic employees.
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  With the working day over in Hoxton Square, she had taken the crowded Tube to Barbican station and then given into the urge for tea and comforting cake in the cinema café near her home.

  The café had been crowded, but a woman moved her coat so that Wendy could sit down. There had been texts on her phone from a new client, as well as an email from her son in America, which she had replied to, with a smile. Then, she had scrolled through her Twitter and Facebook feeds while sipping her tea and eating a flapjack – gradually allowing the strain of the day to drop from her shoulders. She had even allowed herself ten minutes to read a chapter of Radio Girls, a novel about the early days of the BBC.

  At six o’clock, some of the laptop-users around her had looked at their watches, and packed up and left. Meanwhile, the evening’s filmgoers had begun to arrive. And in the midst of the comings and goings, she had spied Robert in the doorway, chatting animatedly with a young woman.

  Spotting her, he had carved his way through the crowd to her table, the female with spiky pink hair and a fixed smile following in his wake.

  ‘Darling!’ He had kissed her rather too boisterously on the lips. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

  She had looked enquiringly at his companion.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve mentioned my researcher. Here she is.’ He had produced her as if she were an assistant to his conjuring act. ‘Mel – my wife, Wendy.’

  ‘This is really spooky,’ the younger woman had giggled. ‘Rob was just talking about you.’ The pitch of her voice had risen at the end of her sentence as if she were Australian. ‘Isn’t it spooky, Rob? I call that really spooky.’

  Wendy had felt her smile freeze and her pulse quicken. ‘You probably want to talk business,’ she had said as she rose to her feet.

  ‘Not for long,’ he had answered. ‘Let’s go out for dinner. What about some tapas at Pedro’s?’

  ‘OK. I’m just going to pop to the loo then I’ll go home. See you soon.’

  In the Ladies, she had peered at her image in the mirror and, with a sigh, had extricated a raisin and a couple of crumbs from the cowl neck of her sweater.