If Only I Could Tell You

by Hannah Beckerman

  Lily locked her jaw to stop herself replying. She knew Phoebe was baiting her. Ever since the truth had emerged about her daughter’s friendship with Mia, it was as if Phoebe couldn’t stop mentioning her cousin, pointing out that she had a relationship with her extended family even if Lily didn’t.

  “Phoebe, can’t we wait inside? It’s so muggy out here. I honestly don’t understand why you’ve got such a hatred of air conditioning, especially on days like this.” There was a note of unintended impatience in Lily’s voice. She didn’t know why she felt so irritable. Perhaps it wasn’t irritability so much as anxiety, or excitement even. It wasn’t every day that you got on a plane to New York where your husband had been living for more than four months to pay him a surprise visit.

  She’d told Daniel nothing about the trip, nothing about her mum arranging it all without her knowledge or the mock truce between her and Jess that felt like nothing more than a box-ticking exercise. Daniel would assume she was spending the weekend at home, seeing friends or catching up on work. But Lily had it all figured out. After dropping her bags at the hotel she’d head straight for his apartment. Even allowing for delays here and there, she should be at his front door by lunchtime. They’d have the rest of the day alone together.

  “The thing is, there’s something I want to talk to you about. Are you even listening?”

  Lily had been miles away but she nodded anyway.

  “There’s something I need to tell you. And if you don’t like it, that’s your problem, there’s nothing I can do about it. But you need to hear me out before you start going mental, OK?”

  Lily felt the color drain from her cheeks. “What is it? What do you need to tell me?” Her voice had emerged a couple of tones higher than usual.

  “OK, so here’s the thing. I’ve been seeing someone for a while now. Just over a year, in fact. Sam. Their name’s Sam. What I mean to say is . . . her name is Sam. She’s a girl. The person I’m seeing is a girl. The thing I’m trying to tell you is that I’m gay.”

  Stories began rewriting themselves in Lily’s head, scenes from Phoebe’s adolescence slotting into place like in a game of Tetris.

  “Are you going to say something or are you just going to stand there, staring at me?”

  Lily understood that she had to speak, that she needed to find the right words and deliver them in the right order, and scrabbled frantically for an appropriate response. “You’re sure?”

  The moment she asked the question, Lily knew it was the wrong one. She prepared herself to apologize, to blame her crass response on the unexpectedness of it all, but Phoebe was already talking.

  “Yes, I’m sure. Do you really think I’d be telling you if I wasn’t? What do you think this is? Some kind of passing fad I’ll recover from with the right vitamins? For God’s sake, I’ve just told you I’m gay and all you can do is ask me if I’m sure.”

  “I’m sorry, darling, I’m really sorry. That came out all wrong. I didn’t mean it like that.” If in doubt, apologize. It was the only useful lesson Lily had taught herself since Phoebe had hit adolescence.

  “So what did you mean?”

  Lily needed time to think, to rehearse the words before she released them into the world, but Phoebe was glaring at her. “I just meant . . . I just want you to have a happy life, that’s all.”

  “Happy? What’s that supposed to mean? Can’t gay people be happy? What is this—the nineteenth bloody century?”

  “I didn’t mean that, you know I didn’t. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “So what did you mean? What ‘happy life’ are you talking about?”

  Lily paused. Sometimes in conversations with Phoebe she could feel her daughter pulling her toward a flaming pyre of disagreement and however hard she tried to rein them both back to safety, Phoebe’s grasp was always stronger. “You know what I mean. You’re being deliberately obtuse.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s not like I’m choosing to be gay as some kind of lifestyle statement. What exactly do you mean by being ‘happy’ anyway? Do you mean happy like our family?”

  “There’s no need to take that tone, Phoebe. But yes, if you want to put it like that.”

  Phoebe began to laugh, not the kind of laughter that invited participation but the kind that made it clear Lily had said something incredibly stupid.

  “What’s funny?”

  “If you think our family’s happy then I’d hate to see your definition of unhappy. Dad lives three and a half thousand miles away and we haven’t seen him in over four months. Your sister can’t bear to be in the same room as you and wouldn’t even let me meet my cousin for seventeen years because she hates you so much. And now you’re heading off on this transatlantic trip with Gran based on a half-baked fantasy that you’re all going to come home gloriously reunited. And you call that happy?”

  Phoebe laughed again—high-pitched, grating—and Lily felt as though she’d been deposited on top of a mountain at an unfeasibly high altitude. “Phoebe, I know you’re upset, but that’s no excuse to speak to me like that. I’m sorry I didn’t realize about you being gay, but you must know I wouldn’t have a problem with it. You must know that. I’m sorry I didn’t guess without you having to tell me. You’re my daughter and I probably should have intuited it but I didn’t, I had no idea, and I’m sorry.”

  “Of course you had no idea. How can you have any idea about anything when you’re never around?”

  “That’s not fair. I’m not never around. You’re the one who’s barely at home these days, and that’s fine—you’re a teenager, I expect you to be out and about with your friends. But please don’t attack me for it.”

  “So it’s all my fault you work every waking hour? It’s because I’m never home? So what’s your excuse for never being at home when I was little? What’s the reason you missed practically every sports day, every nativity play, every school concert? What’s the reason you turned up late to every parents’ evening, as though somehow you were more special than everyone else and all the teachers should have to wait for your arrival, like you were the Queen of bloody Sheba? Do you know something? When I was little I thought I must have done something really naughty because you were never at home. Because it was the nanny who took me to school, who collected me afterward, who listened to stories about what I’d been doing all day. Because she was the one who spent every afternoon painting pictures with me and acting out The Lion King or Sleeping Beauty, who cooked my dinner and sat next to me while I ate it, who played games with me at bath time and read books before bed. I spent years thinking there must be something wrong with me because you weren’t one of the mums who ever picked up their child from school. So was that my fault too? Was that my fault for being so stupid when I was five years old?”

  Phoebe glared at her and Lily felt something shift between them, something she wouldn’t have been able to articulate even if she’d dared to try.

  “I’m sorry you think I got it so wrong. I thought I was doing the best for everyone, for you and for me. I wanted to be a strong role model for you. I wanted you to know that you had choices, that anything was possible.”

  “I know that, I get it. But when you’re little you don’t want a role model. You just want a mum.”

  There was a hairline fracture in Phoebe’s voice that made Lily want to reach out, enfold her daughter in her arms, let her know that everything was going to be OK. But something stopped her. Because it was only in preparing to hug Phoebe that Lily realized she couldn’t remember the last time she had.

  Her phone bleeped in her hand. She looked down, saw an email from her boss flash up, felt herself hesitate.

  “Oh yes, Mum, you’d better look at that. Let me guess—work? You couldn’t possibly keep them waiting while you actually have a conversation with your daughter, could you?”

  Lily flushed, felt her fingers itch with temptation, and then shoved the phone into her pocket. “I don’t know what to say, Phoebe. I did the best that I could. I’m sorry
if it wasn’t enough.”

  “Do not say you’re sorry. I’m sick of hearing it. You seem to think it’s a get-out-of-jail-free card but it’s not and I’ve had enough of it. I’ve had enough of pretending everything’s perfect when it’s not. I’ve had it with the pretense and the lies and the sham of it all. You go off to America, have a good trip, and when you come home you can act like none of this ever happened, just like you always do.”

  Phoebe’s invective fired at Lily like bullets from a machine gun. Lily wanted to say something, to find whatever words would mend a relationship she hadn’t realized was so broken. But it was as though things she had thought were solid had begun to melt, and she was watching them leak away from her.

  She felt her phone vibrate again in her pocket—once and then a second time—and the thought of those messages from work demanding an immediate response, even as they were in the process of discarding her, caused her fingers to find the phone’s power button and press down hard to turn it off.

  Phoebe was still staring at her, waiting for a reply. I’m sorry, Lily wanted to say. I’m sorry I got it all so wrong. I’ve given all my time to a job that doesn’t even want me anymore and now there’s no way I can turn back the clock and do things differently.

  A thought slid into her head: maybe it wasn’t too late to do things differently. Maybe she should embrace the redundancy, spend some quality time with Phoebe. Perhaps they could both spend the summer in New York with Daniel. And maybe, when she got back, she could look for a job that might give her more purpose, more meaning. Perhaps it might not be too late to rectify her mistakes after all.

  “I’m sorry, Phoebe. Perhaps if we—”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Mum. Your apologies are meaningless. You’re never going to change, never. And I’ve had enough of it.”

  Phoebe turned and ran into the airport terminal. Lily’s hand reached out toward her just a fraction too late, the rest of her explanation shriveling on her tongue. She moved to follow, to tell Phoebe there was still time, there was still a chance for them to have the relationship Phoebe wanted—that Lily wanted too—her heart suddenly aching with love as though a dam had burst after years of restraint. But by the time she had hauled her suitcase through the revolving doors and into the terminal, Phoebe had vanished.

  Chapter 50

  Audrey

  Nine hours later, a yellow taxi snaked through the midday Manhattan traffic, horns blaring, sunlight glinting on buildings that stretched up as if to touch the sky. Audrey gazed out of the cab window at a view that looked less like a city and more like a movie set. She couldn’t believe she was actually here.

  It was only now that she could see the pinnacle of the Chrysler Building gleaming in the sunshine that she realized how deep her fear had been that she might not make it. She watched the steam rising from manhole covers and smelled the perversely delicious mix of car fumes, hot tarmac, and burning ambition all cooked together in the sweltering July heat. So many times over the past month she had imagined all the things that might have stopped her making this trip: Jess announcing she’d changed her mind; Lily deciding she couldn’t possibly leave work, even for a few days; her doctor prohibiting long-haul travel. So many obstacles, both real and imagined. But now she was here.

  Inside the handbag clasped tightly on her lap, next to the Trebor Extra Strong Mints, a half-used packet of tissues, and her anti-nausea medication, nestled Audrey’s diary from 1969. It had felt only right to bring it with her. Without it, she might never have remembered how much her sixteen-year-old self had wanted to come.

  Audrey glanced sideways, at Lily next to her and Jess in the front passenger seat, both of them staring out of the window. They’d barely uttered a word since they’d left London. Jess was clearly still furious with her and had watched movies back-to-back throughout the journey, while Lily had spent most of the flight under her eye mask, complaining of a headache. Any attempt to engage either of them in conversation had been met with monosyllabic responses until Audrey had swallowed her disappointment and instructed herself to be patient. She couldn’t expect decades of estrangement to be resolved during the course of one flight across the Atlantic.

  But now, driving through the streets of Manhattan, Audrey felt irritated that her daughters couldn’t put aside their differences just for a few minutes so she could enjoy her first glimpses of a city she had waited so long to see. She turned to look out of the window—at the New York Public Library, Rockefeller Center, Radio City Music Hall—trying not to let the atmosphere spoil the moment completely.

  Leaning forward to retrieve a bottle of water from her hand luggage, a sharp pain stabbed behind her sternum. She tried not to wince, tried to stop the discomfort writing itself onto her face. She couldn’t let them know how much pain she was in. For weeks she’d been falsely reassuring them that her symptoms were stabilizing, that she was plateauing rather than declining. She’d insisted, time and again, that she was definitely well enough to go on this trip. If they knew how much her health had deteriorated over the past three weeks, they’d never have agreed to get on the plane with her.

  Looking up, expecting to see her own anxiety reflected back at her in her daughters’ faces, she was instead met by the backs of their heads. She rubbed a hand against the bony wall of her chest, breathed slowly, and turned to look out of the window.

  Ahead of her she saw the trees of Central Park but before she’d had a chance to absorb the sight, the cab swerved into the main entrance of the Plaza Hotel, the car door opened, and a man in a navy blue uniform—complete with peaked cap—welcomed her to New York. As Audrey stepped out of the cab and onto the checkerboard concourse, she tried to focus on all the things she might be able to say and do over the next few days to bring her daughters back together.

  Fixing her family: it was the only thing that mattered. And Audrey had five days in which to achieve it.

  Chapter 51

  Lily

  Eighteen blocks and fifteen minutes later, on a road running perpendicular to Central Park, Lily stepped out of a cab. Humidity enveloped her like a thermal blanket she was unable to shrug off. Her mum had tried to persuade her against going straight to Daniel’s apartment—had suggested she settle in at the hotel and freshen up first—but Lily hadn’t wanted to waste any time.

  The house in front of her looked just like the photo Daniel had sent: steps climbing up to a wide front door, black railings on either side, a redbrick building nestled between two elegant cream town houses.

  Lily pulled out her compact, pressed some powder onto her nose, reapplied her dark red lipstick. She felt girlish almost, like a teenager arriving for a first date. She instructed herself not to be silly, reminded herself that this was Daniel, her husband of eighteen years, and she was turning up in New York to surprise him. It was, she thought, exactly what their relationship needed: spontaneity, excitement, a reordering of priorities.

  She walked up the steps, reached the glass door, looked at the list of names next to the buzzers—Cohen, Harris, Garcia, Perez. Goldsmith was about halfway down, innocuously typed, nothing to suggest that Daniel was a temporary guest of the city.

  Later Lily would not be able to explain what had made her finger hover above the buzzer, would not know what had caused her to hesitate as though the scene had been paused by an invisible third party. She would not know what had prompted her to press her face to the glass door, cup her hands around her eyes to shut out the light and peer into the building’s lobby like a Peeping Tom. None of these things Lily would ever be able to explain beyond the slippery answer that somewhere, deep down, she must have known.

  Lily pressed her face to the glass and it was as if the world had stopped turning on its axis.

  On the other side of the door, Daniel stepped out of the elevator, laughing. As he took another step into the small lobby, Lily saw that his arm was outstretched around someone’s shoulders, that the shoulders belonged to a young, flame-haired woman wearing a cream silk blou
se and scarlet lipstick, that the two of them were laughing, heads bent together, as if sharing the most delicious joke in the world.

  Time seemed to slacken as Daniel and the redhead turned toward the door. Lily saw the woman’s eyes widen in surprise, watched her lipsticked mouth form into a perfect shocked circle, caught a glimpse of Daniel’s startled expression.

  Lily felt herself back away from the door but then it opened and there he was, standing in front of her. And Daniel’s first words were not It’s great to see you or What a lovely surprise or I’m so pleased you’re here. Lily’s husband stood and stared at her as if he didn’t quite recognize her.

  “Lily, what on earth are you doing here?”

  Chapter 52

  Audrey

  Lying on the super-king-sized bed, three goose-down pillows under her head, Audrey understood why the rich always wanted to get richer: once you’d had a taste of this, you’d never want to give it up.

  There was a gentle knock at her hotel room door. She moved to lift herself onto her elbows but her limbs felt impossibly heavy. Parts of her body she hadn’t consciously registered before were making themselves known to her, clamoring for attention, trying to prove that each could ache more than the last.

  “Mum? Are you in there?” Jess’s voice drifted through the locked door.

  “Yes, I’m just coming.” Audrey tried to swing her legs over the edge of the bed but they seemed glued to the duvet. She rolled onto her side, felt a sharp skewer of pain dig into her right shoulder, managed to stifle a cry before it escaped her lips.

  All she had to do was get off the bed. How hard could it be? She must have done it thousands of times before. And yet now it seemed that her limbs wouldn’t comply with a task she’d spent sixty-two years taking for granted.