Chapter 8

Isobel was miserable. It seemed that Gerry had taken at her word. She had heard nothing from him for three weeks. In many ways that was a relief but at the same time she missed him: his cheerfulness, his warmth, his gentle teasing. It was no good crying over spilt milk. She had made her decision, which she still thought was the right one, and must live with the consequences. That did not make her any happier though. She felt bereaved almost as she had when Gwen had deserted her. What had she done to deserve to go through this misery twice and yet to be so blessed in other ways with a job she enjoyed and which paid well plus her beloved cottage? She knew she was capable of loving Gerry selflessly but she could not live with the fear that he might cease to love her.

She had been delighted to see Helen Ridley when she had put her head round Isobel's office door. She had always respected and admired her at school. She was thrilled that Helen had accepted her invitation to tea and insisted that she call her Helen. Then they found that they had similar first degrees, English and Philosophy in her case and English Literature in Helen's. That had meant that Helen had stayed longer than either of them had expected or intended but they were both enjoying themselves immensely.

Then, out of the blue, Helen had asked her whether she was still in touch with Gwen and the spell was broken. Isobel knew it was a totally innocent question and it would not have worried her in the normal way but set against her underlying unhappiness over Gerry she had to fight tears and had been unnecessarily abrupt. Helen had left soon afterwards and Isobel had been miserable ever since.

The misery continued all weekend and she moped around achieving nothing in the house or garden. She forced herself to eat something but she had lost the will to prepare anything out of the ordinary whereas she normally spoiled herself at the weekends.

She traipsed into work on Monday morning and was relieved to be able to turn her mind away from herself. Merle immediately noticed and slipped away to confide in Eleanor, Mr Honey's secretary. Henry had spoken to Eleanor after Gerry's telephone call and she in turn had asked Merle to keep an eye on Isobel and tell her if she appeared to be upset or unwell.

"She came in looking like death warmed up," Merle reported.

"Did she say anything?"

"'Good morning' but I might just as well have been a stick of furniture. She normally asks me about my weekend and teases me about my boyfriend. None of that."

"OK, Merle. Thank you. Keep me up to speed."

"'Kay."

When Merle took her her mid-morning cup of coffee she was relieved to find Isobel more her normal self and indeed she appeared to be just that when Merle took a client in at half past eleven. Merle reported to Eleanor.

The rest of the week was much the same. Isobel would drift in but then perk up as the mornings went on. Henry himself started to visit her; something he had never done previously. He was perturbed. She was looking wan and thin cheeked. He mentioned it to Merle who agreed.

"I don't think she's eating properly," she replied, "and she's not bothering to bring her lunch in any more. It always used to be quite a feast. You know, cold chicken or ham and salad and some fruit but I've never seen her eat anything this last ten days."

Henry resolved that it was time he brought Penelope into play. He had already told her of Gerry's telephone call and Helen's visit. Penelope had taken it in but no more. She knew Isobel from two or three dinner parties but not really any better than that. She decided to drop in on her over the weekend. There was a risk that she might not be at home but if she was in the depths of misery, as Henry clearly thought she was, that was unlikely.

She knocked on Isobel's door late morning on Saturday. Isobel opened the door after a long delay in a dressing gown and with her hair all over the place.

"Oh, hello, Penelope," she said tonelessly.

"Hi, Isobel, I've just been swapping honey for jam with Stella Mainwaring and suddenly wondered whether you'd like a couple of jars of honey."

The wisp of a smile flitted across Isobel's face: the Honeys made honey.

"That's very kind of you," she said listlessly and then remembering her manners added, "Do come in."

Penelope with a bright smile followed her to the kitchen.

"I'm sorry. I'm a bit disorganised this morning for some reason. I started reading the paper and didn't realise what the time was. Would you like some coffee?"

"Thank you. I'd love some." She had noticed the unopened Times on the hall table. "Henry tells me you've virtually rebuilt this cottage internally. If this kitchen is anything to go by I'm thoroughly impressed."

Isobel smiled wanly. "Thank you," she murmured. "I really ought to start doing some entertaining but, as you probably noticed, the hall isn't finished and the dining room still stinks of new paint."

"Christen it with a curry supper. That'll soon get rid of the smell of paint."

Isobel could not help but chuckle. "Good idea," she said.

"I don't want to poke my nose in but I'd love to see what you've done."

Isobel thought of the state of her bedroom: the bed unmade, clothes strewn everywhere. She could never take Penelope in there or the spare room with Gerry's skirting boards.

"It's really only downstairs so far."

They took their coffee into the sitting room via the dining room. Penelope was genuinely impressed and said so. She also admired the garden from the sitting room window.

They sat down and there was a silence.

Penelope broke it. "Isobel," she said gently, "you're not yourself and Henry's worried about you. Would it help to tell me about it?"

Isobel stared at her and then shook her head vigorously.

"Please, Isobel. I'm not prying I just want to cheer you up if I can."

Isobel shook her head again and then burst into tears.

Penelope was there in a flash, kneeling at Isobel's feet and taking her hands in hers.

"Tell me, Isobel. I promise I won't laugh at you or anything like that. Please tell me. It sometimes helps just to talk about it."

Isobel shook her head again equally vehemently as the tears continued to pour.

Penelope moved up to the arm of the chair and cradled Isobel's heaving shoulders. She said nothing more, merely held her.

Something began to get through to Isobel. Here was a woman, who was really little more than an acquaintance but offering her warmth and comfort. With all her cloying love, when it had occurred, her mother had never shown this ... this ... compassion. She rested her head against Penelope.

Penelope remained silent. If Isobel was going to talk prompting was not going to help. Penelope had to be patient. She was. She sat there for forty or more minutes during which Isobel was silent or sobbed uncontrollably. Penelope's left arm went numb and she developed a crick in her neck. Still she sat.

"I can't let myself love anybody," Isobel finally stammered. "Even if I want to." She started to cry again.

"No wonder you're miserable. Do you know why?"

A silent nod.

"Can you explain?"

"I tried to love my parents but it didn't work."

"Were you an only child?"

Isobel shook her head. "Younger brother. I think it got to him because he's gone off the rails."

"What got to him?"

"Our parents were totally wrapped up in each other and really had no time for us unless they were apart. I tried to love them and show them I loved them but they never really returned it. I ... I almost felt ... I wasn't wanted."