There’s a pause while he thinks about this. ‘But why’s it a secret? Is it a secret? Does anyone know?’
‘Oh, well. Jenny. A couple of other people. But it’s boring, telling people. And anyway, I’m not divorced, so you have to say you’re separated or whatever and it’s… tedious. I suppose once I’m actually divorced – thanks’ – I take the offered joint from him – ‘– it will be easier. I don’t want to have to explain it all the time.’
‘You could have told me.’
‘Yes, I could.’ I smile. ‘But I didn’t want to.’
He frowns at me. ‘Why not?’
‘I didn’t think it was any of your business. And then I thought it would be easier, since I know you didn’t really want to give me a job, and you might have thought it was… I don’t know, a reason not to.’
I see he’s thinking about this. ‘How long were you married?’
‘Fifteen years. Together for nineteen.’
‘That’s a long time.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you… How do you feel? About that?’
‘About my husband leaving me and shacking up with someone I thought was my friend?’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah, it’s not great.’
‘But… I can’t believe you’ve never mentioned it.’
‘I prefer not to talk about it.’ I smile again, amused by his shocked expression.
‘How did you find out? Or did he tell you?’
It’s funny he thinks I must have ‘found out’. That’s exactly what happened, of course.
‘No, I found out. He sent me a message by mistake.’
‘By mistake?’
‘He meant to send it to her.’
‘Oh. Shit. That’s–’
‘Yeah, it wasn’t my best day ever.’
‘How did you–’
‘It was a picture,’ I tell him. ‘A photograph. I recognized her rings.’ I waggle my own fingers. ‘She wears lots of rings, you know, she’s kind of…’ I think about Susanna, with her mass of curly henna-red hair and her chunky silver jewellery, turquoise, amber. ‘She’s a bit earth mother-ish. Quite recognizable, even if you can’t really see her face. Even if she’s rather unexpectedly sucking your husband’s dick.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Mm.’
‘Thea, I’m so sorry.’
‘That’s okay,’ I say, brightly, ‘you haven’t done anything, have you? Anyway, that sort of let the cat out of the bag. I thought he might apologize and so forth, but it turned out he liked her better.’ I clear my throat.
‘That’s awful.’
‘It is. But it’s also very dull.’
‘Dull?’
I look at the joint I’m holding and realize it’s gone out before I’ve even smoked any. I ask him for a light and he drops the red plastic lighter into my hand. I fumble with the wheel, my thumb pressing against it, hear the grating spin. I inhale and see the flame crackle, wondering when I last smoked a spliff. Millennium Eve? Since then, surely. Someone’s thirtieth? You could still smoke in pubs, then. Not drugs, obviously. I liked pubs better when you could smoke in them, or maybe I was just younger. Now pubs smell of toilets and chip fat and stale beer, where once they smelled of fags. But you can go out for the evening and not have to wash all your clothes. Swings and roundabouts, I suppose.
‘I’m hardly the first person to wake up one morning and realize they’re middle-aged and single and nothing’s going to be quite as they expected. It happens all the time. It isn’t interesting. That’s one of the problems,’ I add. ‘One of the things that makes it hard to work around – or through. It’s just so… It doesn’t matter how shit it is, or how crappy I feel. It’s impossible to have an original thought about it. It’s worse than falling in love, for clichés. Honestly, so dull.’ I sigh. I’m reasonably impressed with my ability to talk about this without crying.
‘Well, but–’
‘Anyway, the only thing duller than thinking about it is talking about it.’ I pause, considering. ‘I’m going to change my name back,’ I say. ‘I’ve never liked Mottram much. Hamilton’s much better.’
‘Hamilton’s a good name,’ he agrees.
I look at him, speculative. ‘So, um, have you ever been married?’
‘Me? God no.’
‘Or similar? Have you lived with anyone, or been engaged, or–’
‘No.’
I wait. Will he feel he owes me some information, or not? ‘That’s quite unusual, isn’t it? Really never even lived with anyone? But you do… sleep with people?’ I think of Jenny telling me about her friends who’d tried and failed to attract his attention; of him telling me about the assistants who used to fall in love with him, or vice versa.
‘Sometimes. I try not to. Or at least–’
‘You try not to?’ I blink at him. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who’d say that.’
He looks a bit hunted. ‘Best not to get involved,’ he says.
‘Blimey.’ I wasn’t expecting that.
It’s his turn to sigh. ‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ he says. I look at him, encouragingly. He waits, trying to decide, I suppose, whether it’s a good idea to say whatever he’s going to say. He takes a deep breath. ‘I’ve slept with everyone my brother’s ever cared about.’
I stare. ‘Everyone?’
‘Well, not our mother. Or, you know, any other relatives. But all his girlfriends, or nearly all of them. And both his wives.’
And there it is, finally, the big reveal. I’ve known there was something, of course, since Alastair first mentioned it months ago. But I can’t really believe it. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘I know.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘I mean it’s not loads of people.’ He smiles a rather crooked smile. ‘Well. A reasonable number.’
‘I don’t think,’ I say, carefully, ‘that it’s the numbers that concern me.’
‘No.’
‘Can I ask… I don’t even know what to ask. Both his wives?’ I say. ‘Jesus.’
‘Yeah, that’s the worst, isn’t it? Although he’d already split up with Julia. His first wife. Before I–’
‘And the second one?’
‘Yeah, that was… No. No, it was my fault that time. Carolyn. I didn’t even like her much, not really. They were all his type, obviously, not mine.’ He smiles at me, a proper smile this time.
‘Edward.’
‘So yeah, um, for a long time, sex was mostly about revenge, for me, and that’s why I try to avoid it.’
‘Revenge? Bloody hell. Way to go from nothing to the most bizarre intimacies in, like, one fell swoop. Christ.’
I blow smoke at the edge of the parasol, where purple divides from the intense blue of the sky. I hear gulls, and the waves, a blackbird somewhere, a tractor or something in the distance. I take another pull on the joint and hand it back to him.
‘So go on,’ I say, ‘tell me why you slept with your brother’s wives. Et cetera.’
‘Revenge,’ he says. ‘I told you.’
‘That’s not… Is that a good reason? I mean, you’re not in a play. What’s that guy’s name? Middleton. Is it Middleton?’ One of the things I like about Edward is he always know the answer to questions about books or plays or poetry. It’s handy, because my memory’s shocking.
‘Thomas Middleton? Yes. The Revenger’s Tragedy. And God, no. No, it’s a terrible reason. That’s why he hates me though, in case you were wondering.’
‘I’d heard something. Vaguely.’
‘Yeah, it was quite a scandal.’
‘Not surprisingly.’
‘No.’
‘So did you… Was that…’
‘I did it on purpose, if that’s what you’re asking. It wasn’t one of those things you do and then go, “Oh shit.”’ He moves so he’s lying down, pushing the cushion he’s been leaning against under his head. He stares up at the blue, blue sky and takes a final drag. The smoke hangs in the air. �
�He didn’t introduce me to Carolyn until the wedding. Just in case.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘Yeah, but I still managed. Mind you’ – he sits up again, leaning to put out the joint, pushing the end against a rock and placing the butt neatly on an empty plate – ‘have to say, I don’t think she can have given that much of a toss about him. It didn’t take an awful lot of effort on my part.’
‘Jesus. So what were you getting revenge for? I’m properly shocked,’ I tell him.
‘That’s why everyone hates me,’ he says. ‘It was a bad thing to do, even though my brother’s an arsehole.’
‘I don’t think everyone hates you, do they? That’s just being melodramatic. And what on earth did he do that was bad enough for you to…?’
He sighs. I can’t tell if he’s relieved to be talking about it or if he wishes he’d never started this conversation. He continues anyway. ‘There were a number of things. I suppose it was cumulative. We’ve never got on. He’s an unpleasant man and he was an unpleasant boy.’ He puts his hands behind his head and stares upwards.
I think about Charles Maltravers, charming in his riding gear, offering me money for Uncle Andrew’s house, shaking my hand and looking me in the eye, inviting me to his house, drinking coffee in the garden at the Lodge, flirting gently, showing me the plans of my house, complimenting my frock. He’s certainly not my type, but he doesn’t seem… unpleasant. But that’s sibling relationships for you, as complex as any other kind of relationship.
‘I’m not sure we could be mates,’ I say, ‘but he’s never seemed particularly horrible, just overconfident, perhaps, and, you know, um, privileged.’
‘Hm, overconfident is a good description. He’s always been much more… I don’t know. He’s got something that I’ve never had, and for a long time that bothered me.’
‘“Something”? What do you mean?’ I stare at him.
‘Oh, you know. Charm, or whatever.’
He’s wearing his sunglasses, so I wouldn’t be able to see his eyes even if he were sitting up, but I try anyway, leaning towards him, trying to read his expression. I can’t though.
‘Overrated,’ I say. ‘But it doesn’t bother you now?’
‘Since I ruined his marriage? No.’
‘Jeez. What did he do, then? To make you hate him?’
He sighs. ‘It was a long time ago. I probably… I don’t know. I expect a normal person, or someone who had a better sense of themselves…’ He trails off.
I look at him. He sighs again. ‘Okay. When I was in my late teens – doing my Highers – Rory’s age – everything seemed very… I was having huge rows with my parents. Immense, shuddering fights with my dad, not just about, you know, lying in bed and not shaving’ – he shakes his head at the idea of his teenage self – ‘but proper stuff, about the inheritance and privilege and the title and the agony of history – yes, I was a wanker, obviously, although I don’t think I was wrong about any of that. I could have tried harder to see how it had consumed him, I suppose, but that was half the problem. Like I said earlier. I was terrified it would happen to me. School was… I don’t know. I don’t have anything to compare it with. Other people had a worse time. I kept my head down and I did learn some stuff. But I was just boiling with fury the whole time. And Charles has always been such a smug little fucker.’ He laughs. ‘He was incredibly pompous, and the worst kind of young Tory. We had a fight after the 1987 election. An actual physical fight.’
This makes me laugh. ‘Did you?’
‘Yes, so undignified.’
I snort. ‘Did you win?’
‘He was only fifteen; of course I did.’
I snort again.
‘Anyway – I was in love with this girl. She was a friend’s cousin. She used to come down sometimes, in the holidays, from Edinburgh. I’d known her since we were, I don’t know, fourteen. I got very drunk once and told Charles, and her cousin, Alex, how I felt. I didn’t mean to; I meant it to be a secret. Anyway, once I’d told him he’d tease me about it, like little brothers do. But he’s not that much of a little brother. Only a year younger. Always much better with girls than I was. He’s better-looking, isn’t he?’
I wrinkle my nose, unsure. I suppose he is more conventionally attractive, but I think Edward’s more interesting to look at. They’re both pretty good-looking, to be fair. I don’t say this though; I just listen. He sits up again and pulls his knees up, takes off his sunglasses.
‘He said I should tell her I liked her. He’d had girlfriends, but I never had. I think I was a late developer; I didn’t think about girls – not real girls – until I was in the sixth form. I mean I had crushes on pop stars, and actresses, but… Anyway, I did think probably Charles knew more about it than I did. I couldn’t think of anything worse, though, than telling her. Or more wonderful, if she liked me. But she wouldn’t. If she did. She was beautiful, properly golden hair and skin like vanilla ice cream, freckles like chocolate sprinkles. God, she was lovely.’ He laughs at the memory of his younger self. ‘Honestly. It’s still embarrassing to talk about it, even now.’
I’ve often wondered what it would be like to be beautiful; it must be an odd thing to be objectively attractive, rather than someone’s personal taste.
‘Anyway, he said he’d speak to her for me. I told him not to, but I guess he did. They arranged for me to be thoroughly humiliated anyhow.’
‘Shit, did they? What happened?’
He shrugs, mouth twisted. ‘Oh, it probably wasn’t that bad really. But I was a sensitive youth. I was hurt, and angry. With both of them, but particularly with him, because it was his idea, obviously, and because… they all found it so hilarious.’
‘What did they do?’
He glances at me and then looks away. ‘He said he’d told her, and she liked me too. And she wanted to meet up. We were up in town – Edinburgh – it was the Easter holidays. He said he’d arranged everything. I was – oh, you know. Excited and nervous and all that. Bought flowers. And my favourite book to give her.’ He shakes his head. ‘Because beautiful teenage girls love metaphysical poetry, don’t they? Beautiful teenage girls in the late 1980s, couldn’t get enough of the stuff.’
‘Whose poems?’
‘John Donne, obviously.’
I laugh. ‘I like John Donne. I probably didn’t know about him in 1988 though.’
‘No, well, anyway. She’ll be on the steps outside the National Gallery, he said. She wasn’t though. I waited for half an hour, an hour, two hours. No phones in those days, no way to find out what had happened. I just waited. And waited. Then they turned up together, with a bunch of other people, mutual friends, people from school. Our peer group, I suppose. Everyone thought it was so funny, that I’d been waiting, and then she and Charles were all over each other. Kissing, and… Like I say, it’s embarrassing to think about it.’ He fiddles with his sunglasses and then puts them back on, turning to face me.
‘I’d have killed everyone there, and myself as well, if I could have done. I don’t know. It was the idea that me liking someone was so ridiculous and funny. It was painful. After that I… It didn’t fill me with kindness towards girls. Women. He could have got much the same result without involving her, but she seemed to find it all very amusing as well. That was the worst thing. That she thought it was funny. That she liked him better. That she’d rather let him kiss her, as a joke, than accept anything I had to offer.’
‘Oh, teenagers are horrible,’ I say, sympathetic. ‘How cruel. And then what happened?’
He shrugs. ‘I’ve barely spoken to him since, and I never spoke to her again, or anyone else who was there. I went off to university, where I was mostly aloof and sarcastic. I was surprised and not terribly impressed when that seemed more effective than being sincere and so on.’
I feel so sorry for the awkward teenage Edward. Being laughed at is a horrible thing. I imagine him, earnest with his poetry and his flowers, waiting and waiting. It’s the sort of thing that affects you
more than it should, perhaps.
‘Hm. Were you brooding?’
‘I was a bit.’ He laughs.
‘Tall and dark and mysterious.’
‘That was my aim. Well, mysterious was my aim, I’m naturally tall and dark.’ We grin at each other.
‘There was a lad on my course who was much the same. James. I don’t know what triggered it for him, but he was desperately brooding.’
‘Did it work?’
‘Not on me, I’ve got too much of a sense of humour. Also,’ I tell him, ‘you might find this hard to believe, but I was pretty cool myself at university.’
‘I don’t find it at all hard to believe. How did your cool manifest?’
‘I’d had a year out, so I was older, and I’d lived away from home. I spent eight months travelling through Europe with my friend Angela. I’d been to Berlin just after the wall came down, and spent six weeks in Paris.’ I think about my teenage self, smiling at the memory. ‘I acquired a convincing veneer of sophistication. I certainly knew a lot more about “life” than some of the people who’d only just got their A Level results. And I had fantastic hair, which helped. Tremendously sharp Louise Brooks bob, raven black.’ I laugh.
‘So Mr Moody and Mysterious didn’t impress you?’
‘No. I used to call him Lord Byron. Which he probably liked, although honestly, was there ever a man more annoying?’
Edward laughs. ‘Shelley’s much cooler.’
‘Yes, but still quite annoying. Poor Harriet Shelley. But at least there’s a point to most of his poems. Mind you, I’m probably being unfair; Childe Harold is another thing I’ve never been able to get through. I can’t be doing with a poem that goes over the page, really.’
He laughs again. ‘Not even Paradise Lost?’
‘Oh, well, I rather wish it wasn’t a poem.’
‘Philistine.’
‘I know, shocking.’
We’re silent for a moment and then I say, ‘But anyway, so – I’m sorry, this is all completely fascinating – then you set out to sleep with all your brother’s girlfriends?’
The Bookshop of Second Chances Page 11