Rosemary Part 2
Episode 5 | Still There
The memorial behind her now and feeling somewhat recovered, Cassandra saw no reason not to go back to Thornfield. A break from the everyday would do her good, and her mother could use the help with her imminent downsize. Verity, however, would not accept Cassandra’s leaving without a thorough debrief of the previous week’s events.
‘You're enjoying a renaissance,' Verity remarked slyly, as the waiter brought a three-tiered plate of cakes and scones, two Kir Royales, and one giant pot of tea. From the Tate Modern members’ floor, with its premium views, their floor-to-ceiling window framed St Paul’s, directly across the river from the museum’s restaurant.
'What do you mean?' Cassandra asked, pouring out the tea.
'The portrait, of course,’ Verity said, nudging aside her cup and picking up her flute glass instead. ‘Everyone's talking about it. Way to pull focus.'
‘Don’t. You sound like Paul.’
‘I take it back, then,’ Verity said. ‘Don’t tell me he told you off. You let him get away with murder sometimes. The cheek of that man. Olivia thought the same, you know.’
‘Not everyone understands his sense of humour. People probably don’t understand your sense of humour either. Anyway, if people are focusing on me, I think my stunningly successful speech has more to do with it.'
Cassandra’s gut twisted unpleasantly when she recalled it. Nearly every morning since that night, she’d woken with a start at three a.m., already cringing at the memory as though she'd been reliving it in her dreams. Even now, the side of her waist ached from the fight she’d had with Paul afterwards. Enjoyed that, did you? Jesus fuck, he had his hand HERE, Cassie, right fucking here, he might as well have grabbed you by the…
'Ha!' Verity exploded, interrupting Cassandra’s train of thought. 'Well, you're right about that much. The eulogy was spectacular. You were spectacular. I'll never forget it.'
'I don't think I'm ever going to be able to look at Jack again.’
She wished she could tell the whole truth, including the bruises on her side, but Verity would do something about it, and then what? Verity wouldn’t understand, couldn’t understand, that some ‘and then whats’ are too high a price to pay for honesty.
'Look at Jack all you want,’ Verity said airily, commandeering the lemon drizzle before Cassandra had the chance. Sighing, Cassandra took a rosemary and cheddar scone.
Photo by Manuela Böhm on Unsplash
‘Any of us can look at Jack,’ Verity continued, ‘I certainly enjoy it. I wouldn’t mind. Though I suspect he might be gay. I always have.'
'Verity, oh my god. Unzip your vulture suit,’ Cassandra said, scandalised. ‘He isn’t gay, not totally anyway. But that’s beside the point. He’s lost the love of his life. His speech was...I think I was still too overcome by it to talk sensibly. It was so...'
Verity shook her head. 'Give me a break. I don't buy it. They were, like...aggressively soul-matey. The couples who are always parading their love are the ones getting up to the most mischief behind everyone's backs, I reckon. Abelard and Heloise they weren’t.'
'You're being awful, and I don't remember who those people are,’ said Cassandra.
'I don't completely remember either.' Verity slathered her scone in cream and shrugged. 'Greatest love story of all time, I think? Buried side by side in that fancy cemetery in Paris. Star crossed, she died of a broken heart in a nunnery, etcetera. Heartrending love letters, apparently. But I’d lay money that AI wrote that speech, and Olivia was no nun.'
'You're the worst person ever.’ Cassandra was laughing despite herself. 'You are. Lightning bolts should come and strike you through this ceiling. But you're being too cynical. Believe what you want, but Jack and Olivia were for real. They did have a great love story. I think I was always envious of it.'
Verity snorted. 'You think you were always envious?! Oh babes. Everybody who was there knows you were envious. You made that abundantly clear in your tribute. But it was a façade. I don't need the evidence. Trust me.'
Verity never suffered fools gladly and had endured too many foolish boyfriends in her time to have much patience with any man.
'You appreciate my performance at the memorial because I said by accident the stuff you would happily say on purpose,' Cassandra said. 'But you don't need the evidence? You call yourself a journalist? Come off it. We would have known.'
Olivia had been dejected and depressed when her assignments dried up and the bank balance went down, when every phone got a camera, when everyone became a photographer. As AI-generated images flooded the market she sank into her darkest days and became wan and pessimistic about her future, like the last time Cassandra met her in the dining room at Hogarth’s. But whatever might have been going on with her professionally, her personal life with Jack was never a problem. With Verity, Cassandra had always felt free to grouse about boyfriends and to an extent about Paul. Verity was perpetually happy to bad-mouth either her own man of the moment or someone else’s. But Olivia was a different story.
Cassandra had tested the waters a few times, hoping for some commiseration from Olivia about the bullshit of life and love and adulthood. Didn't passionate love flip to passionate hate from time to time? Don't you and Jack ever fight?You must argue...right? But Olivia had blinked at her with her long lashes, baffled. What do you mean? Besides, Paul always laid on the charm when Olivia was present; she would have been confused and heartbroken if she’d thought Cassandra’s union was any less happy than her own.
Jack and Olivia were the couple who set the bar, the lovers everyone seemed to envy and aspire to. If you met them for dinner, you'd fantasise about their lives in the taxi on the way home as your other half slumped beside you, snoring from too much wine. You’d picture them just before searching Oracle for is there really such a thing as true love, or asking, Clio, are pheromones real?
In Verity's mind there wasn't any such thing as true love, and pheromones weren't real, and there was little point in arguing the authenticity of Jack and Olivia's romance with her. At least Verity’s attitude helped diminish Cassandra's embarrassment about her speech, even though shameful little memories were still dive-bombing her like bloodthirsty mosquitos.
'What did you mean about “renaissance”?' Cassandra asked. 'Did someone say something to you? On the night? I mean, I was rather shocked at how many people said something. Someone asked about a commission. I don’t know. It’s got me thinking, though, I suppose.'
'Ah yes, by all means, let's get back to you.' Verity poked Cassandra’s arm with the tines of her cake fork before plunging it into the lemon drizzle again. 'No, not on the night. I mean, yes, on the night, but I'm talking about since. On her Memor.I.Am. Everyone's commenting on it. You haven't seen it?'
Verity narrowed her eyes at Cassandra as she drew the fork cleanly out through pursed lips.
'Oh, gosh. No,’ Cassandra said, blushing. ‘Yeah. I knew it was there. I’ve been so busy helping Mum plan her move to London, so...’
‘Busy? You haven't been on Olivia’s Memor.I.Am at all?' Verity said, cocking an eyebrow. She speared the final chunk of cake.
‘They’re just weird,’ Cassandra said. ‘They make me uncomfortable. It’s like social media for death. And Paul hates…’
‘Fuck Paul’s control freakery,’ Verity said. ‘And Memor.I.Ams aren’t really like that, are they? However much of a Luddite one is, and you are one, darling, not logging on is like not showing up at the funeral. It’s rude.’
Memor.I.Ams were different, and Cassandra knew it. As Olivia’s best friend, she should have been chief mourner, second in command only to Jack. Not visiting or commenting, not being involved herself in its construction, were all violations of the social contract.
She would take her time to soberly and thoughtfully craft something before publishing it. Her reputation could be rehabilitated then, people would post heart emojis and kisses and hugs. Beautifully said, Cassandra. What a wonderful tribute. Huge sympathies for your loss.
She’d had a handful of messages from Jack but, shamefully, she hadn’t yet opened them. She had assumed he was trying to nudge her to do the right thing, assume her proper role, and she’d been avoidant — but maybe he just wanted to show her that he'd chosen the portrait as the memorial picture. Her painting as Olivia’s forever image.
'I was planning on posting after I’ve sorted Mum’s cottage, when I can pull my thoughts together,' she said. ‘I’m still…processing things.'
Suddenly her voice was shaking.
‘Oh. Babes,’ Verity said, contrite.
‘Listen, Verity, I’m sorry, but you’re…you’re rushing me,’ she said. ‘I’m not trying to be rude. I’m scared to go on it, weirdly. And once I go on, when can I ever go off, I mean, it’s like it never stops. I’m all over the place. It’s all I can think about, I miss her, but somehow, I can’t seem to make myself…I’m not trying to be a horrible person. Please. I…’
Verity usually considered herself too practical to weep. Now, though, she seized the napkin from her lap and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. ‘God. Don't listen to me. You’re not a horrible person. I am. And we're all still processing it, I think,’ she said. She studied the view out the window, trying to regain her composure. 'It’s all so sudden, and so weird. You know me. I don't mean to be an arsehole.’
'I know.' Cassandra patted her own eyes, even though they were still dry. She couldn’t understand how this could be, how she hadn’t yet cried. 'So sudden and so strange.’
They were silent a moment.
‘You could come back to Thornfield with me and Mum,’ suggested Cassandra. ‘See your parents. Help me with the loft, even. We could go for some walks, see the snowdrops.’
‘Oh babes, I don’t know,’ Verity said. ‘I’m on deadline, and I’m hanging on by my fingernails as it is around there. If I don’t smash every piece they’ll replace me with some fucking journo-bot. And you know me. Muddy paths, soggy treks over the South Downs. Not my scene.’
‘I understand, I understand. It’s okay.’ Cassandra thought for a minute. ‘It’s odd, clearing out your childhood home. My stuff, Mum’s stuff. Dad’s. It makes you think about your life.’
‘Mm,’ Verity said, checking her phone. ‘I bet. I’m going to have to go in a minute.’
‘Something’s got to change, I think,’ said Cassandra slowly. ‘I’ve got to change something. I need that time in Thornfield. To think, you know.’
These unfamiliar words in her mouth prompted an expanding sensation in her chest, a lightness in her head. She looked up to see Verity gazing at her quizzically.
'Well,' Verity said. 'Quite right. I’ve waited a minute to hear you say that.’
‘I’ll log on at Mum’s,’ Cassandra said. ‘To the Memor.I.Am. I promise.’
Next time: Hiding away from Paul and the rest of the world at her childhood home in the country, Cassandra finally summons the will to log on to Olivia’s Memor-I-Am.
About the Author
Elaine Kasket ventures into new territory with Still There, her first novel. Known for her nonfiction work, she's now exploring the boundaries between memory, technology, and human connection through fiction. This serialised novel is being released exclusively on Substack, with new installments dropping every Tuesday and Friday. Join the journey from the beginning, and subscribe to make sure you don't miss a single episode.
