The Only Way is Up

Part Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Two

"Nicole, your father is unwell. I think you should come home."

The last thing she had expected when she picked up the phone on her desk at work was the firm, unemotional voice of her mother.

Nicole digested the words for a moment, not really able to contemplate what that meant to her. It had been a long time since she'd thought of her family with anything resembling affection. But that didn't mean she was cold or heartless, or that she didn't care at all.

"He's ill?"

She could hear her mother huff, she was the least patient woman that she knew, "yes, that's what I said, he's been in hospital, they say it's his heart. If he has any more pain in the next two days, he'll have to have surgery."

It was then she heard the hitch in her mother's voice, that single sign of emotion. She was human after all, and the fact that her husband of forty years was ill was affecting her. It gave Nicole a rather inappropriately timed urge to smile, despite the ridiculousness of the situation.

"I'm on my way."

As much as, other than the recent dinner, it had been months since she'd seen her parents, it had been ten times longer since she'd visited the family home. It wasn't like she'd forget the way to the Kensington house, it was just that the dread and anxiety filled her as she approached the street in the same way it always had.

Shouldn't such strong family memories bring pleasure? It wasn't as though she was starved as a child, or physically abused, in fact she'd lived a gilded life, and money had been no object. But as the Beatles so aptly quoted, that can't buy you love. She was in her mid thirties, more than an adult, she had to get over these anxieties, she owed it to herself.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped up to the imposing red wooden door and knocked, swallowing the nausea that occupied her throat. She was better than this; she had to get over it. A brief rap of the huge iron doorknocker led to some scurrying sounds from within, and after just a few seconds the door pulled open.

Imelda, her parents cook/cleaner and door answerer immediately broke into a smile as she recognised Nicole, she herself was amazed to see her still working. In any memories of the petite woman, Imelda was old. Today her face could only be described as wizened. Deep lines bored into her skin by years of hard work and stress from her mother, who was a horrendous task master as a mother, who knew how the older woman had tolerated her employers for the past thirty years.

Imelda pulled her into a hug, "Miss Nicole...it has been too long, but you look so good." Nicole smiled, her English was still accented all these years later, she'd come to the UK decades ago fleeing the growing unrest in what was then Yugoslavia. She'd told her all about her home town on those afternoons when her parents were working and she had sat in the kitchen watching Imelda cook the family's dinner.

"It's good to see you too; it's been a long time."

Imelda nodded, "I know why." Her sympathetic look changed then as she sighed, "I was sorry to hear about the baby. No one deserves that."

Nicole could talk about that now, for months she couldn't, so she smiled, "it's ok. Things happen for a reason."

"And you are young, there's time."

Again she smiled, not really sure that there would be that, but then she wasn't about to share feelings she couldn't understand herself.

"They are in the drawing room, they knew you were coming."