He’s stopped at Customs, waved over to a desk where two officers wait. He knows it’s because of his long hair and earring, his scruffy sweatshirt. He forces himself to watch impassively while they dig their hands through his stuff, shaking out his washbag, unscrewing lids and sniffing at creams. They hand back his rucksack and guitar case with obvious disappointment, and he knows better than to make a comment. He heads out of the sliding doors into the bustle of the arrivals hall.
He joins the early-morning rush hour, standing on a packed Tube rushing through darkened tunnels. He’s uncertain how Lucinda will greet him. When he first told her that he wanted to go to America, she told him he was being ridiculous. ‘Come with me,’ he pleaded. ‘We can make it a road trip. Have an adventure.’ But she wouldn’t leave her shiny office in her Soho advertising company. ‘Have you gone mad?’ she said, after he’d told her he’d bought his ticket to New York. ‘You’re giving up an opportunity in one of the best law firms in London.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘You’re risking losing me too,’ she added. ‘You should know that.’
‘I have to do this.’ He wanted her to understand. ‘I’ll call you every week.’
She refused to acknowledge him when he left for the airport, turning her face away from his kiss, the taxi rumbling below.
He stands outside his building and cranes his neck to look up. She knows he’s due back. He opens the door and goes through the communal hallway, climbing three flights to the top floor. The penthouse, they used to joke. He buzzes once to give her some warning, then turns his key in the lock. It’s a mezzanine flat, and the minimal open-plan kitchen and living room are clean and tidy. He heaves his heavy rucksack off his shoulder, puts his guitar case on the floor. As he straightens, he hears the creak of footsteps.
She stands halfway down the stairs, a small, upright figure. ‘Jack,’ she says. Her dark hair is immaculately styled, and she’s dressed in a navy trouser suit with heels. She’s never out of heels, the higher the better. He feels a lump in his throat. Only he knows how her diminutive stature bothers her – how she’ll do anything to add height, balancing on precarious stilettos all day long, putting her hair up, even wearing hats.
She comes down the rest of the stairs, looking elegant and composed. But when she’s close, he sees a tremor in her fingers as she fastens gold rings into her ears. She kisses his cheek, and he leans down to hug her, smelling her familiar Dior perfume. ‘You look like a student,’ she sighs, stepping away. ‘And you need a shower.’
‘Yeah. Twelve hours’ travelling will do that.’ He gives her a rueful smile. He’s thought hard about the words he’ll use to explain to her about Cat. He wipes damp palms on his jeans, preparing himself, his heart thumping behind his ribs; but she’s turned away from him, fiddling with the coffee machine. ‘Have you got whatever it was out of your system?’ she asks over her shoulder.
He starts. ‘What do you mean?’
She turns back towards him. ‘The stuff about your dad. I’m not saying it wasn’t a shock at the time, but you’re not a child. You have a job. Commitments. Me.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Are you ready to get back to your real life, Jack? To be the man I fell in love with?’ He suspects she’s rehearsed this speech. It would be just like her to have it word perfect. ‘I think I’ve been pretty patient,’ she goes on. ‘I’m not saying you don’t deserve to have fun sometimes. You went straight from university into work. I get it. Maybe you’ve been working too hard. I suppose this trip to the States has been a kind of … sabbatical for you.’
He drops his gaze, staring at the ground. ‘Lucinda … Lu … I’m not going back to work. This time away … it’s been much more than having fun. It’s made me realise that I can’t commit myself to a career that makes me miserable.’ He meets her eyes. ‘I understand what I want to do with my life. And it’s music.’
She touches her hair carefully, pushing a strand into place. ‘Music? You’re giving up everything you’ve worked towards for music? Everything we’ve worked towards? Just like that. All our plans gone?’
‘They were never really my plans,’ he says as gently as he can. ‘I was just trying to please people – do what was expected of me.’
‘Please people?’ she repeats in a cold voice. ‘So it was all a sham, was it? You were just trying to please me when you asked me out at Oxford, when we moved into this place, when we talked about making a success of our lives?’
‘No. Of course not. Lu … I’m sorry.’ He goes towards her, but she holds up her hand like a traffic policeman. ‘Don’t. Don’t touch me.’ She shakes her head. ‘I thought all that stuff about wanting to be a musician was just a reaction to your father – a way of getting back at him. I didn’t think you meant it. What’s happened to your ambition, your pride?’ Her voice breaks, her mouth trembling. ‘I thought you wanted to get to the top – be a partner in the firm.’
It’s Lucinda who wants him to become a partner. But it seems petty to contradict her. He can’t comfort her either. She doesn’t want him to. He stands before her feeling helpless; he pushes up his sleeves, runs a hand through his hair.
Her eyes fix on his arm, the inked notes. She screws up her face in distaste. ‘You’ve turned into a stranger.’ She takes a step back, her chin tilted up.
‘I never wanted to hurt you, Lu,’ he says. ‘I’m still me, but people change. And sometimes life … it just explodes under your feet. That’s what it felt like when I found out about Dad. My whole perspective did a one-eighty.’
‘I haven’t changed. I’m the same person you met at Oxford.’
‘I know,’ he says gently. ‘You’ve always been sure of who you are and what you want. I admire that in you. It’s not the same for me, though. I feel as though I’m only just beginning to understand myself.’
She shakes her head. ‘Then we’re just not on the same page any more, are we?’
‘The thing is … we have different values, different ideas about the future.’ The truth of what he’s saying gives him new strength. ‘We were very young when we met.’ He makes his voice gentle. ‘I still care about you, Lucinda, but it’s true, we don’t understand each other any more and we don’t want the same things.’
‘It’s over, then,’ she says in a quiet voice. ‘Isn’t it?’
He nods. ‘I’m sorry.’ He gestures towards the kitchen. ‘But this is your home. You stay. You can have the flat.’ He’s not going to tell her about Cat now. It would just hurt her more, and confuse the truth about them growing apart. ‘I’ll leave.’
Her mouth tightens. ‘I’ll send your things on. I suppose you’ll go and stay with your precious sister or one of your dropout friends.’
He suspects that she’s jealous of his closeness to Mattie. And she’s always making snippy comments about Ben, not understanding that friendships rooted deep in childhood and shared memories can withstand the different choices you make as adults. But she’s hurt, and he’s not going to start a row. He ignores the jibe. ‘I’ll be at Mattie’s,’ he says. ‘If she’ll have me.’
He picks up his bag. It doesn’t feel heavy any more. Despite the sadness and guilt that’s come with this ending, and the knowledge that he’s hurt someone he used to love, a lightness has entered his bones.
SEVENTEEN
Cat, May 1983
Still no letter from Sam. First I told myself that he was busy finding a place to stay, getting himself sorted. Then I worried that he’d interpreted my no-show at the airport as a message that we were over. But how could he? After the way we felt, the things we said? I don’t mention his name to Mom – I don’t want to hear her say I told you so. He doesn’t know about Dad, about his trial. His not-knowing creates another distance between us, bigger than an ocean.
What if he’s dead? What if he hasn’t written because he’s ill or been killed, and my whole life I’ll never know the truth? He may as well have stepped off a cliff. He’s gone as completely as that. And I miss him. I miss the cu
rved line of his dark eyebrows, his bones, his skin, the fleshy knot of his beating heart. I miss his lopsided smile. His voice. His singing. I miss him holding me. The way he made me feel.
‘I’ll write to you when I’m on the plane,’ he said. ‘I’ll post it as soon as I land.’
Maybe he hated the story I gave him; he’s disappointed I’m not the writer he hoped I’d be.
Maybe it’s to do with the thing he was going to tell me; maybe he’d changed his mind about seeing me again. No. I don’t believe it. Dammit. I can’t and I won’t.
Mom does nothing all day. She gets dressed, but then sits and stares into space, drinking iced sweet tea from a Mason jar. I’m not much of a cook, but I can manage fried chicken. Mom nibbles at what’s on her plate. She’s thin. A Thanksgiving turkey’s wishbone has more fat on it. She’s changed since the day of Dad’s arrest. She doesn’t even water her geraniums; she just talks and talks about her life as a girl in South Carolina. She’s started to use the names of her parents and brother with casual familiarity, as if her mom and dad are still alive and she’s just stepped out of her childhood home and will be returning any moment.
‘Did I tell you about the time I went picking wild plums?’ she asks, twiddling the end of her hair ribbon between her fingers. ‘Oh, I did love the taste of those plums. But they hung in a thicket where everyone said rattlesnakes lived. Daddy banned me from going into that thicket, but I disobeyed him. Well, my Lord, I nearly stepped on a sleeping rattler! Can you imagine? There it was, coiled in a circle under my raised shoe. Saw it just in time, those viper diamonds on its back. Had to stop myself screaming. Bit my lip so hard it bled. Put me off plum jelly for years.’
Mom won’t discuss Dad or what’s happened to him. She won’t visit him either. He got five years. On top of his jail sentence, he has a heavy fine, and must pay back every cent he took. It will take him a lifetime and more. We’ve been living off my wages and the stash of bills hidden at the back of my drawer that I’d been saving for a plane ticket to London. Our lease is up on the house soon; we can’t afford to renew. I chew my food, half listening to Mom’s chatter, her stories about warm peach cobblers and fireflies; tales of her white cat, Magnolia; descriptions of the moss-strewn cypress trees in the swamps. She doesn’t understand – or won’t understand – the situation we’re in. I’ve decided to write to her brother, Daniel, tell him what’s happened. She kept the letter he wrote her about their parents’ deaths.
Thinking about writing to Daniel brings the pain of Sam’s missing letter back. It’s a physical hurt behind my ribs. I press a hand to my chest, as if I can push back the sorrow. I turn a sob into a cough, scrub my face on the edge of my shirt, dabbing at my eyes before I collect the dirty plates from the table and put them in the sink. I force myself to think about what I’ll say to her brother. I won’t tell Mom I’m writing him, not unless I get a reply.
Wiping my eyes, collecting myself with a little shake, I put a cup of coffee in front of her. She looks at me vaguely and smiles. ‘Bless your heart, sweetie.’ Sometimes I’m not even sure she knows who I am. She sits at the kitchen table for hours, completely still, not even playing a silent piano. There was ash in the sink. When I asked her what she’d burnt, she looked vague. ‘Trash,’ she said. ‘Just some old trash.’ Her fingers twitch constantly, as if she’s striking a match. I worry she’ll burn the house down while I’m at work. She wanders around before dawn like an antsy ghost. I’ve found her out on the porch a couple of times, first thing, sitting on Dad’s broken-down chair, humming and watching the road.
EIGHTEEN
Sam, June 1983
Something wet and spiky hits his face. He wakes with a shout, sitting up in the darkened spare room. His cheek is damp. His nephew stands at his bedside, grinning like a toothless demon, a loo brush in his fist.
Jesus. The little brat just whacked him in the face. Sam uses the edge of the sheet to wipe his cheek, not wanting to look at the specifics of what exactly he’s removing. He pushes his legs out of the covers. He has no idea what time it is. Since arriving at his sister’s weeks ago, he hasn’t kept to any kind of routine. Most days he doesn’t even know what date it is.
He stifles a yawn and blinks at the toddler. ‘Watch out for the tickle monster!’ He holds out his hands, wiggling his fingers. ‘I’m coming to get you!’
River staggers away on chubby, uncertain legs, still clutching his weapon of choice, laughing.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Sam finds Mattie on her hands and knees picking up what looks like regurgitated food. The cat is on the table, tail in the air, stepping delicately around dirty plates and cups.
Mattie glances up at him, raising an eyebrow. ‘At last, the prince awakes.’
‘Your son just smashed me in the face with a loo brush.’ Sam grimaces. ‘None too clean, either.’
‘That’s what you get for being a lazy sod. I’ve been awake since five this morning and I haven’t sat down yet.’ She hauls herself to her feet. ‘You need to start helping.’ She wipes her hands together. ‘Otherwise it’s bloody well time to move on.’
Sam drops into the nearest chair, slumping over the table. He picks up a blackened crust of toast and bites into it. ‘I told you,’ he says with his mouth full. ‘I can’t go anywhere until she replies. This is the return address I gave in my letters. I gave her your telephone number too.’
‘It’s been weeks, Jack.’ She raises an eyebrow, correcting herself. ‘Sam. She’s not going to reply now.’ She sits next to him. ‘Look. I’m not saying this to be cruel, but someone has to tell you the truth. This girl, Cat, I know you’ve fallen for her. But I’m afraid she doesn’t feel the same, or she would have written or called or something by now.’
Sam stops chewing, globs of marmalade on his lips, charcoal on his tongue, gritty and tasteless as coal dust. ‘You don’t understand. I know she felt the same. I know she did.’ He drops his face into his hands, the musk of his unwashed body rising up. ‘The thing that scares me is that I … I told her that I’d lied. When I wrote, I explained everything. About Dad, and how angry I was. How my parents weren’t really dead. I explained that I was reinventing myself when I met her, that I’d renamed myself. I even told her about Lucinda.’ He looks at his sister. ‘But what if I made a mistake, telling her all that in a letter?’
Mattie sighs. ‘You did the right thing by explaining, even if you were an idiot to lie in the first place. It was good to tell her the truth. And if she can’t handle it …’ She shrugs.
‘She hates lies, Mattie. Her dad gambles, and she’s lived with his lies all her life.’
‘I know. You told me. About a million times.’ She squeezes his fingers. ‘What happened to your plans to work on your music?’
‘Yes, but I’ve been waiting—’
‘Stop waiting. Start doing. Stop this obsession with Hampstead Heath. God knows why you’re schlepping across town to mope about there, wasting your time. It won’t bring her back. Get on with your music. It will take your mind off her for a start. And what about your flat? You do own half of it. Have you discussed selling with Lucinda?’
‘She can live in it, at least until she wants to move. I’m not going to force her out of her home. I’m the one who’s let her down. It’s the least I can do.’
She sighs. ‘I suppose you’re doing the decent thing, although I don’t like to see you like this. It’s a lot to give up, Sam. You’ve gone from being Mr and Mrs Perfect in your designer flat to being broke, alone and homeless.’
‘Yeah,’ he says, raising an eyebrow. ‘Thanks for that, sis. You have a winning way with words.’
‘Just saying.’ She stands up. ‘We’re out of bread. I’m going to nip to the corner shop. Watch River for me.’
‘I’ll get it.’ He starts to rise.
She puts her hand on his shoulder. ‘There’s a whole pile of Lego on the carpet next door. Why don’t you teach your nephew how to build a flyover or something? I need some fresh air. Going out for a l
oaf of bread is about as good as it gets for me nowadays.’
The door slams. River is sitting on the rug next to the table, picking up bits of kibble from the cat’s bowl and sticking them up his nose. He startles at the sound of the door, swivelling his head left and right. Realising that his mother has gone, his bottom lip begins to quiver. Sam slides off his chair onto the rug and sits cross-legged next to him. ‘Don’t cry, mate.’
Big, fat drops are dribbling down River’s face.
‘Want to play with Lego?’
River shakes his head.
Sam gets onto all fours. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’m a horse. A gee-gee. Want a ride, River? Want to gallop round the house?’
River’s nappy feels squishy against Sam’s lower spine. Small, fat fingers tangle in his hair. He struggles to his feet, one hand under the child’s bottom to avoid accidental dismounts, and then he’s cantering through the rooms, bucking and whinnying, River digging his sharp little heels into his ribs like a rodeo rider.
After three laps around the downstairs, he collapses onto the sofa, panting, River sprawled across his stomach, hiccuping with mirth. In a matter of seconds, the toddler has closed his eyes, his lashes so extravagant they look as though they’re stuck on with glue. Holding his breath, Sam slips out from under his nephew’s sleepy weight.
He takes a small package of paper from his pocket – three pages covered in Cat’s large writing, worn and creased with rereading and refolding: the story she pressed into his hand, telling him to read it when he was back in London. He almost knows it off by heart. She writes beautifully. He’s studied it for clues as to why she doesn’t reply to his letters, but he can’t find any. The story isn’t about them. It’s about a woman called Cindy. A kind of modern fairy tale. He folds the pages again and slips them carefully into his pocket.
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