‘I don’t mind having you all to myself for longer,’ he’s saying. He runs his fingers through my hair, picking out bits of coloured confetti: yellow, pink and white in the palm of his hand. ‘You are happy, aren’t you, darling?’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Of course I am.’
THIRTY-TWO
Sam, December 1989
Amongst flailing limbs, and bodies whirling under purple strobe lights, a woman walks around in a gold bikini with a python coiled around her neck. The New Year’s Eve party has reached the point of fracture, helped along by the legendary cocktail of drugs available at Decker Grant’s West Berlin mansion.
A girl appears by Sam’s side. He squints at her. Her dilated pupils pulse. Shining silver hair swings around her cheeks. Her top is slashed to the waist at the front. ‘I was in your last video. In the open-top car?’ she says. ‘St Lucia?’
‘Right. Yeah. I knew that.’
The party whirls past them in a pleasant slip-sliding sensation. She’s touching his arm, rubbing at his bicep. He clenches it, and she giggles. ‘Wanna go to your room?’ she murmurs.
He’s certain he’s never seen her before. He reaches out an unsteady hand and, with great concentration, touches her silver hair to see what it feels like. It looks like something hanging on a Christmas tree.
The girl is yanked away. Her eyes widen. And she’s gone.
‘I’ll kill her if she touches you again,’ Daisy slurs, scowling at him.
Sam finds he has threads of silver clutched between his fingers. He raises his shoulders, lets them fall. He lacks the words or the energy to explain. It just happened. Like rain. Like … like … He frowns, confused. He can’t remember what word he’s looking for, or why he’s looking for it. He staggers away. He needs more alcohol, more lines of coke. The party is spiralling downwards, and he’s going with it.
Just a few streets away, there are shovels unpicking stones, pickaxes razing the Berlin Wall to the ground. Sam wanted to go and see it, but Daisy was horrified by the suggestion. ‘No way,’ she said. ‘What if there’s a stampede? It could be dangerous.’
The top floor of Grant’s modern house is a giant glass box, built in such a way that it protrudes vertiginously over the limits of the lower floors, so that Sam sees the pavement swinging far below. Twisting his head left and right gives him a panoramic view of the city, and tilting his head back, he’s stargazing. Standing inside plate glass, amongst a crowd in designer clothes, with champagne glasses raised, he and Daisy toast the start of a new decade, while the freezing night sky turns into a battleground of pyrotechnics.
Daisy’s lips find his own. ‘Love you, babe,’ she slurs.
He slides the strap of her red dress back onto her shoulder. ‘Happy New Year,’ he says, but the words are dead in his mouth. The glass box reels around him, and he stumbles back, stepping on someone’s foot, spilling someone’s drink. Above his head, the air explodes with colour. He closes his eyes against the confusion, and somehow, he is not on his feet any more, but tumbling through space, silent and earthbound, like a dud firework.
January 1990
Early next morning, the first of 1990, Sam leaves Daisy sleeping on black silk sheets while he and George cross from West into East Berlin. There’s a long line of people waiting to come in the opposite direction. Much of the wall still stands, the stones covered in new graffiti, but huge chunks have been demolished, as if a giant creature has been snacking on concrete. Sam bends down and picks up a handful of rubble, examines its pinkish colour. He slips it into his pocket. Dazed-looking border guards huddle in groups, smoking, their guns slung over their shoulders. The ground is littered with the frazzled remains of fireworks and torn streamers, and here and there, an abandoned shoe or piece of clothing.
The air is flecked with white. Sam looks up, letting petals of sleet land on his face. The cold wetness is a relief. There’s a thumping bass slamming against the back of his eye sockets. He touches his temple, and finds he has a bruise there.
A new year. A new era. He wants this first day to be the start of something good, something different. The Lambs have topped the charts again and again. But the music they make isn’t what Sam set out to do. It’s time he faced up to it – did something about it. And then there’s Daisy. He sighs.
George plucks at his arm, pointing out a photographer taking photos of the wall. ‘Let’s go before he recognises us.’
The two men find a café. It’s packed with people who’ve probably been up all night. They squeeze onto the end of a crowded table and order two black coffees, delivered after a long wait by an unsmiling girl.
‘Here’s mud in your eye,’ says George, raising his glass cup. ‘Talking of which, that’s some shiner.’ He wrinkles his forehead. ‘Wild party. Shame you didn’t come with us to see the Brandenburg Gate.’
‘Yeah, I was gutted to miss it.’ Sam takes a swig of burning, bitter liquid.
‘It was insane,’ George says. ‘Everyone standing on the wall. This jubilation in the air.’
‘But think of what they lost for all those years,’ Sam says. ‘What they suffered.’
‘Exactly.’ George nods. ‘Maybe grist for a song?’
Sam runs his tongue around the burnt interior of his mouth. ‘But that kind of political idea doesn’t work for what we do, does it? It’s not what people buy a Lambs album for.’
George says nothing. Heaps some sugar into his cup.
‘And let’s face it, that’s all anyone wants from us,’ Sam continues. ‘The same commercial sound. I have this longing to write something more … I don’t know … interesting.’ He rubs his face hard. ‘Does that sound crazy?’
‘No.’ George wrinkles his eyebrows. ‘I know you’re frustrated at the moment.’
‘Hell, listen to me moaning!’ Sam grimaces. ‘Guess it’s not such a bad place to be, if I let myself get some perspective on it.’ He touches his brother’s arm, making an effort to smile. ‘We’ve had some amazing years. Been to incredible places and met extraordinary people. Made some serious dosh. Two platinum albums in a row. No one can argue with that.’
‘How are you so bloody optimistic with a hangover?’ George asks. ‘It really pisses me off.’
Sam grins. ‘That was my aim.’
Sometimes acting himself is easier than being himself, and he understands why Daisy does it, why her whole life is a pretence.
Outside the café, George points out a brand-new advert for a fizzy drink. ‘It’s started already.’ He scowls. ‘The slide into capitalism.’
The advert yells its redness into the hushed grey of the winter morning. Drink me, and you will be happy.
‘Like a fucked-up Alice in Wonderland,’ George says.
They turn away from it.
‘Want to explore a bit?’ he asks. ‘Get a train into the countryside? See the real East Berlin?’
Sam thinks of Daisy waiting for him at Decker Grant’s place. He shrugs. ‘Why not?’
At the station, they take the first train into the countryside, travelling past vast fields hidden under snow. They get out at an unpronounceable village, and wander through quiet streets. There’s no sign that this day is different from any other. Nobody looks at the two men: George, broad-shouldered and red-haired, wrapped in his tweed overcoat; Sam in his battered leather jacket, collar up, cap over his tangled hair. He feels invisible for the first time in a long while.
They stop at a kiosk selling chips. As they wander off, clutching greasy packages, George pops a chip in his mouth. ‘Listen, mate,’ he says, gasping at the heat. ‘I wanted to get you on your own, because … I’m worried about you.’
‘Me?’ Sam watches a small car go by. The engine sounds like a lawnmower.
‘Yeah. Seems to me that you’ve been pushing it too hard for a while now. Working all night, taking maybe just a few too many hits of coke to see you through.’
Sam rubs his nose. ‘What are you saying? I’m not an addict, George. For fuck’s sake, we’re
under pressure to get this album finished.’
‘But it’s not just the album, is it? You seem … I don’t know. Wired. Depressed.’ George touches his shoulder. ‘I haven’t seen you laugh – really laugh – in a long time.’
Sam shakes George’s hand away. ‘Look, just leave it, all right? I use some chemical help sometimes. So what? Who doesn’t? I don’t need you being all censorious.’
‘Hey, take it easy.’ George’s voice is careful. ‘I’m not nagging, but I thought we could talk.’
‘I just … I don’t need this now, okay?’ To his horror, Sam feels tears stinging his eyes.
Before he embarrasses himself completely, he strides away, dragging his sleeve across his face. What’s wrong with him? His heart aches. George’s words hurt because they’re true. He stops beside a house, and a flash of yellow through the window makes him turn to look. A canary in a cage. Such a tiny creature, all alone, singing. A memory of a white church comes back to him, Cat’s leg pressing against his as she tries to hum the aeroplane tune.
Suddenly he realises what it was – the song she was trying to remember. He begins to hum the familiar tune, the lyrics in his head conjuring up an image of a man standing by a door, packed bags at his feet. A sleeping woman stretched out in bed, early morning light soft on her face. He imagines the roar of a jet across a sky. And he sings out loud, the words making him ache.
His cheeks are wet, tears making a ticklish path along the side of his nose. She was the most real person in his life. Being with her in Atlantic City was the last time he was himself, the last time he was whole. He feels weird, constricted, as if someone has their hands at his neck, squeezing. He opens his mouth, but no words form. Instead, there’s a choking sound.
‘Mate.’ George is there, plucking at the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Come on. Come away.’
‘I’m a fake,’ Sam whispers.
‘I think you’re burnt out.’ George’s voice is slow and careful. ‘It’s understandable. It’s been a non-stop ride. Maybe you need a proper break. Some help … you know?’
‘“Leaving on a Jet Plane”.’ Sam wipes his face with his fingers. ‘Fuck.’ He gives a short laugh. ‘John Denver. Only took me seven years.’
‘What?’ George sounds concerned.
‘Nothing.’ He squeezes his eyes shut. They walk on in silence, just the sound of their boots creaking through the snow. ‘It’s over,’ he says, ‘with Daisy. I can’t do it any more.’
‘It’s got kind of toxic between you two. So yeah, maybe for the best.’
‘I’m sorry I snapped,’ Sam says, leaning against George’s bulk. George pats his arm silently.
They stand on the cold station platform, waiting for the train to Berlin. Sam thinks about Daisy. He doesn’t want to hurt her, but there’s no avoiding this. He stamps his feet and blows on his hands. The sensation of the icy air is a relief, the way it scours his throat, stings his lungs like salt water.
THIRTY-THREE
Cat, January 1990
‘Morning, sleepyhead.’
I surface, mumbling remnants from already forgotten dreams. I am reluctant to leave the warm darkness behind. Wherever I was, I wanted to stay longer.
I open my eyes. Leo is leaning on one elbow, smiling down at me with that quizzical look of his, although I know that without his glasses, I’m just a blur. He kisses my mouth. Then he lies down again and puts his arm around me, his nose nuzzling my neck. ‘I’ve been thinking … I’d like to have another child, Catrin,’ he says in a voice that trembles with anticipation. ‘A baby. With you.’ He squeezes my ribs. ‘What do you say?’
‘A baby?’ I blink up at the ceiling.
‘New year. New decade. It couldn’t be a better time to make a new member of the family.’ His voice smiles.
My hands move to my belly, excitement catching like a spark. ‘A baby,’ I repeat, getting used to the idea.
‘I’ve always wanted a son,’ he says.
‘To be honest, I’ve never thought much about having children,’ I tell him. ‘But that’s because I’ve never been in a situation where I could have one.’
I can feel him waiting for me to give him an answer. I’m a married woman, secure, settled. Having a baby is suddenly not just possible, I realise, it’s expected.
‘Yes … yes … I’d like to have a child,’ I say slowly. ‘With you.’ I feel for his hand and slide my fingers through his.
He squeezes my hand, then he’s up on his elbow again. He turns to find his spectacles on the bedside table and puts them on, his blue eyes bright with excitement. ‘I’m so happy, darling.’
I smile up at him. ‘Do you think Grace will be okay? Do you think she wants a sibling?’
‘She’ll be thrilled at the idea.’
I sit up, pulling the sheet around me. ‘Let’s talk to her. She should feel included.’
Leo nods. ‘Good idea. Why don’t you mention it to her casually this morning, so that she doesn’t feel under pressure to give the right answer.’
‘This morning?’
He shrugs. ‘Why wait?’
I grin. ‘I’ll try and find the right moment.’ I glance at the bedside clock. ‘I’ll go down and make sure she’s eating breakfast.’
‘I’ve invited David and Lucy for supper this Saturday, by the way,’ he says. ‘That’s all right with you, isn’t it? I told them they could take us as they find us. Don’t go to any trouble – they can eat with us in the kitchen. Whatever’s easy.’
My cooking is almost edible nowadays. Leo’s even dropped the cordon bleu jokes, but he never puts any pressure on me to come up with dinner-party dishes. He slides his feet onto the carpet and reaches for his dressing gown.
David’s one of his colleagues from work, and a fellow golf enthusiast. Lucy, his wife, is also a doctor. They’ve welcomed me as Leo’s wife. When I’m alone with her, Lucy bemoans the loss of her husband to the golf course. I don’t want to join in and gripe about Leo’s long working hours, his weekend absences, but it’s true I didn’t expect to be alone so much after we married. It’s okay to sacrifice romance, though, I tell myself, if it’s for a different kind of love – something grown-up, secure and kind.
Leo hums, searching in his drawer for a pair of clean boxers. If he’s not away lecturing, or at a conference, his routine is the same every morning: a shower, before dressing in a dark suit and tie; then coffee and cereal, ten minutes looking at the headlines in the Guardian, and off to get the Tube to Moorfields Eye Hospital. On a Wednesday, he has a different Tube journey to a private hospital, with squash after work. Saturdays are reserved for golf. He is a creature of routine. But after living with my erratic father, I can only see it as a good thing.
‘What are your plans for later?’ he asks. ‘Anything fun?’
‘I’m about to start on the second draft of my children’s book.’ I hand him his tie. ‘The one about young teenagers going back in time and solving crimes.’
‘Ah, yes. A novel instead of short stories?’
‘I didn’t have much luck with the short stories, did I?’ I attempt a carefree laugh. The pile of rejections I received after sending them off was crushing. ‘Maybe a novel will be easier to get published,’ I say. ‘It’s giving me time to get to know my characters better, build up their world.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re keeping busy, darling.’ He’s heading for the door. ‘You can tell me more about it this evening.’ He’s already thinking about his list of patients and the operations lined up. Then he stops and turns back. ‘And maybe we can make a start on the other thing we discussed?’
‘What thing?’
‘The baby thing,’ he says. He raises one eyebrow. ‘We can have fun trying, anyway.’
I throw the pillow I’m holding at him and he ducks, laughing.
Grace is in the kitchen, dressed in her school uniform. She’s leaning into the fridge when I come in, and she replaces a carton of orange juice on the shelf and shuts the door. ‘Morning, Cat.’
>
I wish she’d call me Mum. I’d hoped after the marriage, she would. But that was before she told me it would make her feel disloyal to Elizabeth.
‘Morning, bug. Have you eaten enough breakfast? Want me to make waffles?’
She shakes her head. ‘No time. I had a bowl of cereal. Nancy’s mum’s picking me up again this morning.’
‘Hey, guess what, I’m nearly ready for you to read my book,’ I tell her. ‘The kids who time-travel and become detectives in other eras? I’ve covered them going back to Roman, Elizabethan and Victorian times.’
‘Oh, that’s exciting.’ Grace smiles. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘Great,’ I tell her. ‘In fact, I’m relying on you. It’s for your age group, so I need you to be very honest with me; no holding back to save my feelings.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ She swings her backpack onto her shoulder. ‘Any title yet?’
‘Maybe The Time-Jumpers?’
She screws up her face, thinking. ‘Yes. I like it. Or The Time-Jumping Detectives?’
‘Nice. Thanks.’ I clear my throat. ‘Grace, listen, there’s something I wanted to run by you … Your dad and I were wondering about the possibility of having … having a baby.’ I swallow. ‘How would you feel if—’
She gasps. ‘A brother or sister?’
I nod, watching her face for any ambiguity, but it’s shining with joy. ‘I’d like a sister more than anything,’ she says quickly. ‘A baby sister would be amazing.’
‘Well, I can’t promise to get the sex right,’ I tell her, smiling. ‘It might have to be a baby brother.’
She shrugs. ‘That would be cool too.’ Then she grins. ‘When? When would you have a baby?’
‘When? Well … I don’t know. Let’s see, it takes nine months for a pregnancy to come to term, and it can take a bit of time to conceive.’ I glance at her to check she’s not embarrassed. ‘But I suppose there could be a baby before the end of the year.’
She claps her hands. ‘If it’s a girl, can we call her Sally?’
The Bench Page 18