You Don't Have to Say You Love Me by Sarra Manning
‘Does this library of yours stock DVDs?’ she asked, as she opened the front door of their old house, which had now been converted into two flats. Her parents had rented out the ground floor to a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses, and though her mother had plenty to say about people who turned their nose up at blood transfusions, apparently they were very good tenants who always paid the rent on time. ‘You know, Neevy, you’re too over-qualified to be directing people to the larger-print books. Have you thought about becoming a teacher?’
‘It’s not that kind of library, Mum,’ Neve said, following her mother up the stairs. They’d had this conversation countless times, but as far as her mother was concerned, libraries were where she went to take out romance novels, that she begrudged paying £6.99 for. ‘It’s a literary archive. And I don’t think I’m cut out for teaching.’ It would be sheer hell having to sit in a room full of cocky teenagers who’d much rather be texting other cocky teenagers than respecting Neve’s authority and listening to what she had to say about the Post-Modern novel.
‘Well, it’s worth bearing in mind,’ Mrs Slater said, as she eased off her shoes. ‘Oh, Neve, you might get a job in a nice private school. That would be lovely. They have very high standards, no hoodies …’
‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’ Neve interrupted quickly. These little pep talks also made her painfully aware of the gaping chasm between her actual reality and her mother’s expectations.
They had their tea in the living room, which had once been her parents’ bedroom. Like the guest room in the Spanish villa, it was decorated in her mother’s favourite autumnal shades: rust-coloured carpet, brown velvet sofa and armchairs and a pair of bright orange curtains that hurt Neve’s eyes if she looked at them too long.
‘You sure you won’t have a biscuit?’ her mother asked her again. ‘Just one won’t hurt. Go on, treat yourself.’
They were her favourite plain chocolate digestives that Neve had used to devour by the packet, but she shook her head and went back to nibbling on the protein bar she’d found at the bottom of her handbag.
Mrs Slater looked wildly around the room and Neve knew that she was searching desperately for something to say that would mean they didn’t have to talk about her sexual escapades. Not that that was something she wanted to talk about with her mother, damn Celia.
‘Did I tell you about Auntie Catherine’s IBS—?’
‘Mum, let’s get this over with,’ Neve interrupted calmly, though she was feeling distinctly uncalm. ‘I am seeing someone and he’s very nice but it’s not serious, which is why I never told you about him.’
‘And why isn’t it serious?’ her mother demanded, little spots of colour appearing along her cheekbones. ‘You’re a gorgeous girl. He should be madly in love with you.’
Neve never knew who this beautiful, whip-smart girl was that her mother talked about but she wished she was more like her. ‘He’s not in love with me and I’m not in love with him. That’s why it’s not serious, because, well, I happen to be in love with someone else. With William,’ she added recklessly, because just saying his name felt like tempting fate. Though as she said it, Neve realised with a little pang of guilt that she’d barely thought about William all day. Which was weird and wrong, when not so long ago, he was her first thought as she got out of bed and, before she could even brush her teeth, she was tiptoeing down the stairs to see if there was an airmail envelope waiting for her.
Her mother, though, didn’t seem to have spent any time thinking about William. ‘Who’s William? Is he one of your friends from the library?’
‘It’s an archive … William! William from Oxford, who drove me down that time I’d left my essay behind and he stayed for tea.’ Mrs Slater was still obviously scrolling through her memory banks. ‘And he came round after Christmas in my second year and you made him a turkey sandwich and he bought you a brandy on Graduation Day, when you said you were really nervous because none of the other mothers were wearing a hat and you needed something to calm your nerves.’
‘Oh, that William.’
‘Why are you saying it like that?’ Neve put down her mug. ‘He was always perfectly nice to you.’
‘Well, yes. Yes, he was. Had lovely manners.’ Her mother paused delicately, which was very unlike her. ‘Don’t you think, well, that he’s a little out of your league?’
‘What’s that meant to mean? Five minutes ago you were telling me that I was gorgeous. Yes, I know William’s really handsome but we connect on a much deeper level than just the aesthetical.’
‘Don’t you start using those long words on me.’ Her mother was looking around the room again as if she wished that she’d changed the habits of a lifetime and selected her words with more care. ‘You’re a very pretty girl, Neve, but men like that don’t go for women like you. And it’s got nothing to do with looks, it’s about where you come from.’
‘I come from Finsbury Park, William grew up in Fulham – what’s that got to do with the price of milk?’
‘He’s posh and you’re not. I know you speak nicely and I don’t know how, considering your father sounds as if he was brought up in a coalmine, and that awful school you went to, but you’re working class and that William … well, what do his parents do for a living?’
Neve longed to tell her mother that owning two houses in London, a cottage in Yorkshire and a villa in Spain meant that her parents were now firmly entrenched in the middle classes, whether they liked it or not, but she knew her mother would just counter-attack with the miners’ strike and the potato famine and not being ashamed of your roots.
‘His father’s a lawyer,’ Neve admitted, though she wasn’t going to elaborate any further and reveal that he was actually a QC. ‘And his mum’s a doctor.’
‘Well, there you are then. And I bet he went to a fancy private school and they eat cheese after their tea instead of a dessert like normal people.’ Her mother smiled grimly. ‘It would never work.’
‘Well, I don’t eat dessert,’ Neve reminded her tetchily. ‘So I’m sure William and I will be just fine.’
‘If you and that William are going to be just fine, then why are you messing around with another man? What’s his name anyway?’
For what felt like the gazillionth time, Neve explained, though her mother knew only too well that she had no relationship experience. ‘I just want things with William to be perfect and so going out with Max is like revising before a big exam.’
‘You … really … what on earth?’ Her mother opened and closed her mouth, her eyes flickering from side to side. ‘Have you not got an ounce of common sense? I’ve never heard such nonsense. Relationships aren’t something you can prepare for and there’s no such thing as a perfect one. They’re a lot of hard work,’ Mrs Slater said baldly. ‘The first year your father and I were married we did nothing but argue. I even threw the butter dish at him once.’
The mention of her father gave Neve another painful twinge as she remembered what she’d pencilled in for discussion next. ‘I know they’re hard work,’ she gritted. ‘But most girls my age have a lot more experience in how to make them succeed.’
‘I didn’t think you were interested in that sort of thing,’ her mother said, curling her lip. ‘We all thought you took after your Great-Aunt Sinead.’
Neve was appalled. ‘She’s a nun while I was just hugely fat. Chalk and cheese. Nothing in common with Great-Aunt Sinead at all, though she’s a very nice lady.’ She was actually horrible and mean, and Celia always said she’d be a lot less horrible and mean if she’d ever had a good shag and a couple of shots of Jack Daniel’s.
‘I just hope you’re being safe.’ Her mother winced as she said the word. ‘In the bedroom department.’
‘That’s really nothing for you to worry about, Mum,’ Neve said quickly.
‘I know you children think I’m old-fashioned but you don’t want to throw away the most precious gift you can give a man, ideally your husband, because you’re being pressuris
Even a year ago, when she was still a size twenty and despairing that she’d ever see a size eighteen tag in the back of her clothes, Neve would have agreed with her mother. But the more she moved towards that mythical size ten and the reality of being in a relationship, her precious gift felt like one more obstacle that she had to rid herself of. Besides, most men she knew would rather have an iPad or a plasma TV than the precious gift of her maidenhood.
‘I know that, Mum,’ she said, wondering how on earth she was going to change the subject.
‘So you don’t want to do anything with this Max that you might regret later on,’ her mother persisted.
‘It’s not really about Max,’ Neve said, because it wasn’t. In the most clinical, calculated analysis of their pancake relationship, he was just a means to an end. And the end was … ‘It’s about William. I … well, I love him and I feel as if part of me is missing while he’s not here. And when he comes back, everything will change. Everything will be better.’
‘You said that about losing weight,’ her mother reminded her in a sharp voice to match the sharp look she was giving her. ‘Aren’t things already better?’
‘Of course they are, but they’ll be even better when I’m a size ten, and then William and I will be together and everything will be perfect.’ Neve had this picture in her head now of a green field studded with wild flowers, the remains of a picnic laid out on a rug and William in a white shirt, his blond hair falling in his eyes as he lay on the grass, his voice a soothing soft murmur as he spoke. She was somewhere in that scene in a pretty size ten summer dress, but try as she might, Neve just couldn’t imagine that, so she focused on William and smiled as she said to her mother, ‘William’s my soulmate.’
‘Honestly, Neevy, you sound like a lovestruck teenager. I should have stopped you reading so much and made you get more fresh air when you were little.’ Her mother didn’t even try to make it sound like a joke. ‘I just hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘I do,’ Neve said and she did, until she had to explain her actions to people who weren’t her or Max and then it all seemed vague and undefined. ‘Look, anyway, that’s really not what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to talk about Dad.’
It came to something when changing the subject to the non-relationship she had with her father was a welcome relief. Her mother didn’t seem to think so. ‘And what would you want to be saying about him?’
‘Well, Seels and Dougie have this crazy idea that I’m not talking to Dad because I’m angry with him. About what he said. You know, that time.’
She couldn’t manage whole sentences but her mother nodded as if she understood and wasn’t that surprised that Neve was bringing it up.
‘Are you angry with him?’ There was something to be said for the way Margaret Slater didn’t bother with niceties and just got straight to the point.
‘I think I was,’ Neve said slowly. ‘At first. I thought he hated me. That I disgusted him.’ She swallowed hard, the tears not so far away again.
‘Your father adores you, always has done, always will,’ her mother stated forcefully. ‘Between you and me, you’re his favourite and he’s still in pieces about what he said that day. He wishes he’d never said it.’
‘But he did say it and he’s never tried to talk to me about it or say that he was sorry, because if he had …’ Neve had to stop because her voice was thickening.
‘Oh, come here, you silly girl.’ Mrs Slater patted the sofa next to her and twenty-five was far too old to cuddle up against your mum, but Neve was getting up from her chair so she could curl up next to her mother and rest her head on her very bony shoulder. ‘You know what a stubborn old git your dad is because you’re exactly the same. He can’t talk about his feelings at the best of times, never mind coming out with an apology. He tries to show it in other ways.’
‘With emails asking me if I need anything to be fixed around the flat?’ Neve sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
‘Do you remember that awful row we had on the way back from Brent Cross that time? I told him that he was going the wrong way but he wouldn’t listen to me, oh no, and we ended up in an awful traffic jam in Neasden and he was too busy shouting at me to pay any attention to what he was doing …’
‘And he went into the back of that car, which belonged to an off-duty policeman. What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I never got an apology but I did get a new kitchen a few months later,’ her mother recalled fondly. ‘I’d been on at him for years to do that.’
‘He might be sorry but he still thought it, still said it. “I can’t bring myself to look at you.”’ This time Neve couldn’t say it matter-of-factly, but choked it out as her mother shushed her and stroked her hair until she could get herself under control and struggle to sit upright.
‘You feel better now?’ Mrs Slater asked, rubbing Neve’s back. ‘He was drunk, he was angry with Celia and Dougie, but not with you, Neevy. And he should never have spoken to you like that but he was worried about you, we both were, and we should have sat down and talked to you about – well, maybe dropping a few pounds. You made this awful wheezing sound when you were going up the stairs.’
‘That’s the thing, Ma. He had to say it and I had to hear it so I could lose a lot more than a few pounds, but it still really hurt.’
‘You never knew your grandmother because she died before you were even thought of, but she was a very large lady.’ Her mother bit her lip, then decided to plough on. ‘It’s another thing your father doesn’t like to talk about, but I think you need to hear this. She had heart problems and she caught diabetes …’
‘You can’t catch diabetes, Mum,’ Neve corrected because she couldn’t help herself when there was an incorrect use of a verb.
‘Well, she got diabetes and she wouldn’t change her diet and she lost the sight in one eye and had terrible problems with her teeth and feet. Had to have two of her toes amputated. Then she died of a heart attack when she was fifty-one with three children under eighteen left to look after themselves. That’s no age to die, Neevy. And your Auntie Susan, well, she’s going the same way. Your dad’s side of the family, they run to fat.’
Neve had been horrified when Gustav insisted she went to the doctor’s before they started her fitness programme, and her blood-sugar levels had been in high double figures, although now they never deviated from a very respectable four point eight. Yes, she’d known about Type 2 diabetes during her fat years, but it had never been enough of an incentive to stop herself from unwrapping another Twix.
‘I’m disgustingly fit now, Mum,’ Neve assured her. ‘I mean, I know I’m still a bit overweight but I’m really healthy, and everything’s working like it’s supposed to be. No wheezing unless Gustav’s made me do super-sets without any breaks.’
‘Well, I don’t know what super-sets are but your father’s very proud of you, we both are. He often says you’re the spitting image of his mother when she was younger. Last Christmas, he said it was like seeing a ghost walk in through the front door.’ She patted Neve’s arm. ‘It would mean the world to him if you let him back into your life. What’s the harm in letting him mend a leaking tap or something?’
‘Well, I’ll think about it.’ Neve put her head back on her mother’s shoulder. ‘Thanks for telling me about Grandma Slater. At least I can see where Dad was coming from.’
‘Your father says I talk too much, but it’s not easy being married to a man who can go hours without saying anything but, “Shall I put the kettle on then, pet?”’
‘But you wouldn’t have him any other way, would you?’ Neve asked curiously.
Her mother pulled a face and was taking far too long to come up with an answer for Neve’s liking. ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind if he looked a bit more like Pierce Brosnan, but he’ll do,’ she snorted, and then she didn’t say anything because she w
Chapter Twenty-four
There was a letter from William waiting for Neve on the day that Max was due back from LA.
Usually the sight of that pale blue envelope gave Neve a serious case of the happies, but that morning it gave her a nasty shock, as if someone had pushed a dog turd through the letterbox. Neve scooped it up and stuffed it in her pocket and it wasn’t until lunch-time that she’d finally worked up enough courage to read it.
And in way she wished she hadn’t, because it was the kind of letter that she’d always dreamed William would send her.
Dearest Neve
I wanted to ring you. I should have rung you, but sometimes it’s easier to put my thoughts and feelings on paper, because when I try to say them out loud my words are clumsy and inadequate.
I realise that I’ve treated you appallingly these last few weeks. I’m hanging my head in shame and offering the most abject of apologies for the inexcusable crabbiness of my last letter. Though when I say letter, I actually mean my terse request for teabags and water biscuits. All I can say in my defence is that I’d had a terrible day that culminated in an argument with a visiting professor over a missing footnote, which meant I was hauled up in front of the Dean. All this and I was going through Sainsbury’s Red Label withdrawal. But really that’s an explanation rather than an excuse.
Then there was that infamous phone call when I should have offered you sympathy and understanding instead of hectoring you about your future at the Archive. I just wish, Neve, you could see how special you are. Your friends are fortunate to have you in their lives, as am I, and it saddens me when you fail to see your great potential. I know that you will achieve important things in your life but you need to know that too.
Ah, yes, there are so many other things I need to apologise for, aren’t there? Like, shattering the calm of your Sunday with my endless requests for research help. And completely ignoring the letter you sent me with your thought-provoking comparison between our meeting of minds and Lou Andreas Salome and Rilke. After I’d read your letter properly, with a glass of Shiraz and a fervent wish that you were sitting there next to me, to debate the finer points of your argument, I came to the realisation that you’re my intellectual soulmate. I have close friends in LA, people who mean a lot to me, but with you, Neve, it often feels as if we’re sharing the same brain, unless we’re talking about Miss Austen, of course! I’ve never met a woman with such an enquiring mind or such a vivid, elegant imagination. Ah, the places you will go …