‘We were having fun.’
‘Daddy.’ Grace pulls at his jacket. ‘Daddy, I want her to tell me the rest of the story.’
‘Not now. She has a job to do, darling.’ She tugs harder at his sleeve and he bends down, listening to her whispering in his ear. ‘No, Grace,’ he tells her. ‘She works here.’ He straightens. ‘This is a strange time for her – for both of us. And now, coming all the way over to Atlantic City, camping out in a hotel room, meeting relatives she hardly knows. We’re stuck here for some time, unfortunately … family duties, legal things. There are some complications. But really I need to get her home. Find some help. Try and get a new routine established.’
‘Home?’
‘London. Hampstead.’ He glances towards his wife’s grave. ‘She wanted to be buried here. They all are. The O’Reilly clan.’
I can see Ray gesticulating to me from the other side of the churchyard. I’m guessing that Sam will be here any minute. My heart quickens at the thought of him.
I squat down. ‘Goodbye, Grace.’
She drops her chin, angling away from me, rolling her body into the curve of her father, her thumb in her mouth. I feel something snap, the connection I shared with her breaking like a silk thread.
‘She’s tired.’ He must have seen the disappointment on my face. He holds out his hand. ‘Leo Dunn.’
‘Catrin Goforth.’ We shake. ‘Or Cat, as your daughter knows me.’
‘Cat,’ he repeats. His fingers are surprisingly firm. ‘We’re staying at the Atlantic, Cat. If you’re passing and you feel like calling in for a cup of tea. Room 242. I’m sure Grace would be happy to see you. She could do with a friend.’ He gives a small smile. ‘And maybe you could finish the story.’
I’m uncertain if this is that thing the English do when they say one thing and mean the opposite.
‘I can see she likes you,’ he adds, before he turns away.
I watch him swing his daughter up onto his hip. Her legs dangle below his knees. He staggers a little under her weight; she rests her head on his shoulder, tousled hair flopping over her face as her thumb goes back into her mouth.
TWELVE
Sam, April 1983
Sam presumes that the man in the black coat, spectacles misty with rain, is the one who’s just lost his wife. There’s a child, too. A chubby red-cheeked girl, leaning against her father’s legs. She’s motherless now. He doesn’t know how Cat copes with such loss on a daily basis. The poor guy must be going through hell. While he, Sam, is the luckiest man in the world.
The rain has slowed to a drizzle. The priest hurries away, black robes flapping behind him. A straggling band of mourners leave the graveside, making their way towards the gate. The man and his child are last to leave. He’s carrying her, her arms clasped tightly around his neck.
Relief fills Sam. He realises he was holding his breath, as if to avoid swallowing their grief. Churchyards make him uncomfortable. He doesn’t like to be reminded of his own mortality, or those Sundays at home. He strides forward, marching over the sodden grass, calling to Cat. She looks up, a huge smile transforming her face. They kiss, a long, deep kiss that makes him want to laugh out loud with the knowledge of being alive with her. ‘You’re as wet as me.’ She pats his sodden jacket, and then she’s holding his hand, tugging him towards the church. ‘Come on – I want to show you inside. And we can get out of the weather.’
He’s not into churches – St Mary’s put him off for life – but he’d sit in a cowshed, visit a sewer if it pleased her.
‘I’m leaving soon,’ he blurts out.
She stops and looks at him expectantly.
His throat is suddenly dry. ‘Shall we … can we … I mean, I don’t want this to end.’ He licks his lips. ‘I know we live either side of an ocean, and long-distance relationships are difficult, but …’
He sees a shudder go through her, and she leans against him, pressing her forehead hard into his shoulder. ‘I don’t want it to end either.’
Relieved, he touches her damp hair, takes her hand and raises it to his mouth. ‘I’ll need your phone number, then. I mean, if you’re going to be my girlfriend. You’ve never given it to me.’
‘Girlfriend?’ She laughs. ‘Somehow that sounds old-fashioned. Especially from you. But good. Really good.’
‘Phone number?’
‘Oh.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘Our phone got disconnected.’ She shrugs. ‘It happens. Safer to write.’
‘We’ll do it the old-fashioned way then. Maybe that’s better. I’ll write first,’ he says, ‘because it’ll take me a while to find somewhere permanent. I’ve got … stuff to sort out when I get back.’ He walks faster, excited by his plans. ‘But when I’m settled, then you could come and stay.’
She grins. ‘You know I’ve always wanted to visit London, and now I’ve got an excuse.’
‘Well then …’ He’s laughing. ‘Give me your address, and I’ll keep it safe with my passport.’
She’s dropped her chin to her chest. ‘Hey.’ He takes her salty cheeks between his palms, raising her face. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ She smiles, eyes blurred. ‘I’m happy. I’ve been feeling sick about you leaving – but now it feels like we really will see each other again.’
‘Of course we will. We’ll work it out. How about visiting in … say, a month?’
‘I’ll come whenever you invite me.’ She blinks up at him. ‘I’ve been saving for an air ticket for years – putting aside small amounts.’
They’re inside the church now. Cat pulls Sam into one of the wooden pews. They sit next to each other, their clothes faintly steaming.
‘Remind me – why did you want to show me this?’ he asks.
‘Whenever we move city and everything’s unfamiliar,’ she explains, ‘I find a church.’ She pats the wooden seat. ‘It doesn’t matter which city or town, churches are kinda the same. The smells. The hushed, echoey sounds. The slightly musty air. It’s comforting.’ She looks up at the arched ceiling. ‘And they usually have heaters on in the winter. I discovered that when I was about eight.’
He blows out through pursed lips. ‘It makes me ashamed,’ he says. ‘I took it for granted that I had a comfortable home with my own bedroom.’ He rubs his eyes. ‘I’ve lived such a stupidly privileged life. Boarding school. Oxford. A house in the country. We had peacocks on our lawn. It hurts to think of you as a little girl having to come to a church to feel safe and warm.’
‘I feel safe now.’ Cat touches his hand, and he curls his fingers around hers. ‘Not warm, though.’ She shivers, plucking at her damp clothes.
He puts his arm around her. ‘Better?’
‘Better.’ She leans back, humming a run of notes. She’s completely flat. He winces. He thinks she must be trying to hum a prayer or a hymn. But it doesn’t sound quite right.
‘Ouch!’ He winces. ‘Not exactly a songbird!’
She laughs. ‘Hey, keep the compliments coming!’
‘So put me out of my misery – what’s the tune?’ He grins.
‘That’s just it. I don’t know. I’m trying to remember the lyrics,’ she says. ‘The one about getting on an airplane? You know the one I mean?’
‘An airplane? Well … there’s Al Green’s “The Letter”. “Wooden Planes” by Art Garfunkel. “Mississippi River”.’ He’s adding them up on his fingers. ‘Jimi Hendrix!’ he exclaims. ‘“Power to Love”.’ He swings around to look at her. ‘There’s definitely airplanes in that one. Want more? Or choose a title, and I’ll sing it.’
‘Show-off.’ She gives his arm a punch, grinning. ‘And by the way, the one I was thinking of? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t any of those.’
He sings a couple of bars from Al Green’s ‘The Letter’ in a low voice, tapping the slow beat out on his knees. A great song. His chest swells, fat with happiness, and he changes vocal gear, singing properly. She joins in, loudly and badly. A woman near the front turns and shushes them. Cat apologises, b
ut they both have to stifle giggles.
They get up, hurrying along the aisle, hands clamped across their mouths. The act of suppressing hysteria makes his belly ache, and when they spill out of the church, their laughter bursts free.
It’s stopped raining, sunshine setting the wet grass shimmering. They’re going to write to each other, keep seeing each other, even with an ocean between them. They’ll work the rest out as they go along. It’ll be easy, he thinks, looking at Cat, still laughing, wiping her eyes, sunbeams in her honey hair. Together they can do anything. He thinks of the man he saw earlier in the graveyard, and how he’s just sunk his hopes and dreams into a dank hole in the earth.
‘The man you were talking to …’ He clears his throat. ‘The man with the little girl. He’s the husband, isn’t he? Of the dead woman?’
She becomes serious. ‘I looked after his daughter,’ she says. ‘She was pretty upset.’ She shakes her head. ‘Poor kid.’
‘I wonder if she’ll remember her mother later, when she grows up.’
‘I don’t know. Hope so. I’d feel bad for the mother if her child didn’t remember who she was.’ Cat slips her fingers into his and squeezes. ‘I’m sorry. Is this making you think about your own mom?’
At first he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. ‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘Look, let’s not be sad. We’ve got so much to celebrate. Let’s do something special tonight.’ He bites his thumbnail. ‘I’ll think of something.’
As they leave the churchyard, another song is forming in Sam’s head, words and music rising inside him, inspiration bouncing off the tombstones, off the damp earth and the silvered watery world, from the feel of her hand in his. Another song for Cat.
THIRTEEN
Cat, April 1983
I meet Sam outside the Liberty Hotel. To my surprise, he leads me inside, through the plush gold and red reception up to the dark mahogany desk that runs along the back wall. ‘What are you doing?’ I whisper. He grins, squeezing my fingers. ‘I’m booking us into a room.’
‘Here? But we can’t afford it.’ I blink as I stare around. Everything is mirrored and shiny.
‘I’ve got the cash. Ally’s paid me.’
I can see how excited he is, how pleased with himself. He’s doing this for me – for us. So I smile and try to look excited.
Sam signs the register and passes it over to me. I put my real name. I’m not going to pretend to be married. The receptionist widens her glossy mouth in our direction, and gestures towards a bellhop. He comes forward, bowing his head. ‘Can I take your luggage, ma’am?’
He looks at my baggy checked trousers and worn-out Keds with a sneer, gesturing towards the floor by my feet with white-gloved hands, as if he can conjure up a pile of suitcases just by staring hard enough.
‘We don’t have any luggage,’ Sam says, rescuing me. ‘And if you give me the key, I think we can find the room ourselves.’ He dips into his pocket and presses a couple of coins into the bellhop’s hand. I can see that this is easy for him, normal.
We go up in a lift; it rises too fast, making my stomach lurch. We step out onto the patterned carpet of a long hallway. Sam finds our room with an exclamation of triumph, and flings open the door.
‘Holy shit,’ I whisper.
‘Hey,’ he laughs. ‘We get a bed big enough for a whole family!’
The room floats before us: an expanse of cloudy carpet, and marooned in the middle, a round bed, ocean-liner-sized. The walls are flocked in silver, with the designs for playing cards in giant gold shapes; everywhere I look, I’m confronted by them: spades, clubs, hearts and diamonds. Gold drapes glisten across the floor-to-ceiling window. I walk across the carpet, feet sinking into the deep pile, and scrabble to find the opening in the drapes, but they won’t pull. There’s a button in the wall. I press it, and the drapes slide back with mechanical jerks, revealing the boardwalk below, and beyond that the beach and the ocean. Sam pads after me to stand behind me, slipping his arms around my waist. The dark sea moves like the back of a whale, rolling and rising. I wish we were out there, running on the sand. The pit of my stomach plummets. Dad could be in the casino below, crouched over a roulette table.
‘I should have told Mom I was going to stay out all night.’
He tightens his grip on my waist. ‘I … I wanted to surprise you. But of course, if you need to leave …’
The situation is slipping away from us, slipping into something boggy and uncertain. ‘No.’ I turn to him. ‘I’ll stay. I’ll just get up early. Go home before breakfast.’
He kisses me gratefully, and goes over to the minibar. He takes out a bottle of champagne and pops the cork. ‘Here’s to us.’ He hands me a glass of bubbles, holding up his own. ‘God, you gave me a hard time when I ran after you on the beach. Do you remember?’ He laughs. ‘I had no idea if you liked me or not.’
I want to tell him how much I liked him from the moment I saw him, how my world spun off its axis when he ran after me. But in a blink, everything has changed, and everything is wrong. I can’t stop thinking about Dad: how hotel casinos have ruined his life, how his gambling has made me a prisoner. I take a gulp of the drink, put it down and begin to undo the buttons on my trousers; I need to feel Sam’s skin against mine, to find the intimacy that’s slipped away like Peter Pan’s missing shadow. We’re both undressing each other, pulling at buttons and sleeves, dragging awkward seams from the angles of our bodies. His mouth tastes of champagne. He’s breathing heavily, fingers fumbling. His heart thuds through his chest. So loud, it vibrates inside my skin.
We tumble together into the giant bed. Silky sheets tangle around our legs, fat pillows spill off the edge as we roll from side to side. I sink my teeth into his skin, pull at his hair. I want to imprint myself on him. The sound of waves is a muted rush and sigh outside the glass. Afterwards, we lie together, panting, our bodies blue-shadowed and mysterious, the open drapes letting in moonlight.
‘You don’t like it, do you?’ he asks. ‘The hotel room.’
‘It’s not that I don’t like it – it’s a relief not to worry about being discovered by Ray or Eunice. And these sheets …’ I run my fingers over them, crumpled now, but still silky. ‘No carpet burns.’
‘But …’
‘To be honest, it’s just … it’s my dad. His grand gestures usually spell trouble. So I guess I’m kind of wary of them.’
‘Oh God.’ He sits up, clapping a hand to his forehead. ‘How could I have been so stupid? You told me about him. I didn’t think …’
‘No.’ I scrabble to sit up too. ‘I’m being stupid. I love being here with you. I love that you wanted to do something special for me.’
He touches my hair, pushing it back from my cheek. ‘I never want to hurt you, Cat.’
I catch his fingers and kiss them. ‘Thing is … being here … knowing my dad could be gambling downstairs … it’s making me doubt everything. Our plans. I mean, how can I leave my parents and come to London? Who’s gonna pay the rent?’
I hear the sharp intake of his breath. He pushes a hand through his hair. ‘You … you said he’d been gambling for years, throughout your childhood,’ he says carefully. ‘So they must have managed before you had a job. You can’t make them the reason you don’t live your life, Cat. You can’t let a sense of duty stop you from being happy. Believe me, I know.’
I bite my lip. ‘They’re my parents.’
‘They’ll cope without you,’ he says. ‘If they have to, they will.’
‘I hope so,’ I whisper.
‘There’s a whole world out there,’ he says. ‘Not just London. So many places we could visit together. You have to set yourself free.’ He gestures with his hand. ‘Tell me. Where else would you like to go?’
‘Apart from London?’ I lie back in his arms. ‘I’ve always wanted to visit the wild parts of the States. Somewhere like the Badlands. Go camping, maybe.’
‘I was there, in the Badlands,’ he says. ‘Spent a couple of weeks alone, swim
ming in lakes, playing my guitar in the woods. And I saw a bear. A wild bear.’ He pauses. ‘It was incredible. She looked right at me with amber eyes. My heart stopped.’
‘Wow. I’d love to have been there.’
He laughs. ‘You’re the first girl I’ve met who’d prefer to see a bear and sleep on the ground rather than in the comfort of a five-star bed.’ He runs his fingers up and down my arm. ‘I’d like to meet your parents before I leave,’ he adds quietly. ‘Think I should.’
‘You saw how Mom was.’
‘Yes, but I’m good with mothers.’ He raises one eyebrow playfully. ‘It’s a skill I have. I’ll win her around.’
I bite my nail. ‘There’s a reason my mom’s like she is, why she wants me to be with a Southern gentleman.’ I twist the sheet between my fingers. ‘The only impulsive, crazy thing she ever did was to run away with Dad against her father’s wishes. But it meant she never saw her parents again. Never saw her brother. Because she took a risk on love, she’s ended up disappointed, with no security, no chance of having a proper home, or being part of a community. And the man she sacrificed everything for is a liar who can’t stay away from casinos. She was supposed to get married to a nice Southern boy who would have given her a good life.’
I stare out of the window at the moon, and it occurs to me that if I were to introduce Sam to Mom as a lawyer, all gussied up in a shirt and tie, his career prospects and his good manners would probably win her over. But I’m not going to do that. I want him to be the person he really is: that guy on stage in jeans and T-shirt.
‘Ah.’ He takes a big breath. ‘Well, I get where she’s coming from then, and under the circumstances I can see she wouldn’t take to me straight away,’ he says slowly. ‘But … maybe in time, when she understands that we’re serious about each other, and I’m not a bad person … maybe she’ll relent.’
‘Maybe,’ I murmur.
‘And meanwhile, I promise I’ll never take you to an expensive hotel again.’
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