Page 24 of Good Bad Girl

“My dear, most people work to earn money, simple as that. I didn’t really enjoy working in a supermarket, just like I’m guessing you don’t enjoy working in a care home. It was my job to catch desperate people doing desperate things and I felt sorry for all ofthem. There were plenty of times I wished I hadn’t seen what I saw, or done what I did. But I was desperate too. I needed a job and that was all I could get after my daughter was born. I sometimes wish I had been arealdetective—I was always pretty good at solving mysteries. I suppose we’re all detectives in the story of our own lives. All searching for clues about why we are here, piecing together the fragments of our existence, trying to solve what and how and who we are compared with who we should be.”

I think on her words for a while. The evening has been far more enjoyable than I expected. I’ve heard a lot of Edith’s stories before—she does tend to repeat herself sometimes—but there were plenty of tales I didn’t know. Edith has lived such an interesting life compared to me. She had all kinds of jobs before she became a mother and a store detective. She was a postwoman, theater usher, she once drove an ice cream van, and she worked as an air hostess for years before her daughter was born. It sounds as though that was her favorite job out of all of them.

“One of my adventures abroad resulted in Clio,” she tells me. “I loved her father. We enjoyed secret rendezvous, gallivanting in Paris, Venice, Rome... I hoped we’d get married. Unfortunately he was already married to someone else, which I didn’t know until after I got pregnant.” She was a single mum, just like my mum. But I imagine that must have been even more difficult fifty years ago. I’ve never left England, but Edith has traveled so far and met so many interesting people. It seems unfair that she is alone at the end. Maybe she always was. Maybe we all are.

My phone buzzes on the bedside table but I choose to ignore it.

Edith stares at my mobile, then at me. “I know I’m old and a little out of touch, but isn’t it customary to answer those things when they make a noise?”

“Not if it’s someone you don’t want to talk to.” I pick up the phone, read the start of yet another message from Mr. Kennedy, and put it down again.

“Man trouble?” Edith asks.

“Ha! Something like that.” Sometimes lies can save someone, not just hurt them. “Can I ask you something?”

Edith takes another sip of her chardonnay. “You can ask me anything, doesn’t mean I have to answer.”

“It’s fine if you don’t want to. Maybe it’s because it is Mother’s Day and I miss my mum, but I wondered what happened with you and your daughter. I know she put you in a home, and I know she took Dickens away from you—which is unforgivable—but she obviously cares. She was there for you today...” Edith looks away. I know she doesn’t want to talk about this but there are things I think I need to know. “How did things get so... horrible between you?”

Edith sighs and puts down her glass. “We are not the sum of our children, they are an impossible equation which we must learn to love rather than try to solve. But love isn’t always enough.” I frown. “You’ll understand one day when you have children of your own. I was young when I had my daughter and very much alone. I grew up in a small coastal village in Scotland and unmarried girls who got pregnant were not welcome. Rather than embarrass my own mother—who cared so much about what other people thought she forgot to have any opinions of her own—I moved to London. It was the best and worst thing to do in the circumstances but it meant I had no support: no family, and the people I thought were friends soon disappeared when I wasn’t as much fun as I used to be. I worked and saved until the day before Clio was born. Then I worked even harder to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. It wasn’t perfect but I did my best.”

“Did you love her?”

“Of course. I still do. You look surprised by that. There are infinite varieties of love. We’ve both made mistakes over the years but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about her anymore. She’s lonely but alone by choice. I confess I’ve always found it a little strange that she chose a career involving helping others when she has neverbeen able to help herself.” She shakes her head and tuts. “I’m just too old and too tired of her blaming me for things that happened a long time ago. My daughter is the villain in my life, I am the villain in hers. We both believe our stories are true.”

I stare at her, observing the faraway look on her face. It’s as though she has disappeared inside a memory. A very sad one. “I’m still not sure I understand.”

“Neither do I if I’m honest. I loved my daughter, still do, but sometimes love gets lost and no matter how hard you try you can’t find it again. When you’ve lived as long as I have you learn that our memories can make liars of us all. No two people will remember a moment exactly the same way, and sometimes people don’t agree on the facts of what did or didn’t happen. I read once that there are two sides to every story and that means someone is always lying, but I don’t think that’s true. Truth bends. Sometimes it becomes unrecognizable. I didn’t need to be the hero in her story, but I grew tired of her treating me like the villain.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Edith stares at my face as though reading my mind and asks a question I don’t know how to answer.

“Tell me about your mother,” Edith says, and I want to but I can’t. She seems to sense my discomfort. “Do you miss her?” she asks.

Always.

“Sometimes,” I say.

She nods. “You are not your story. How you got to this point in your life doesn’t have to define the rest of it. You’re still young enough to be whoever you want to be, but if you are lucky enough to be loved by someone you love too, don’t ever let it go. That sort of thing doesn’t happen too often, sometimes it doesn’t happen at all. Write your own story and make it a good one.”

I hear Big Ben start to chime midnight out above the rooftops in the distance.

“Maybe we should think about getting some sleep?” I say.

“Good thinking. I’m knackered, you must be too.”

“You can have the bed and I’ll be fine on the floor.”

“Don’t be a nincompoop. We’ll share it.”

“It’s a single bed...”

“We’ll go top-to-toe.”

It isn’t long before we are both tucked in at opposite ends of the bed, with Dickens making himself comfortable on top of the covers between us. I think Edith is asleep already, but then she whispers something which makes me want to cry.

“When someone you love becomes someone you can’t, it is the very worst kind of heartbreak. Goodnight, Ladybug.”

Frankie

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