I think back to the conversation overheard only minutes before. Christophe said something about a promise, or was it a secret? Either way, I can’t be sure and so probably best not to say anything to Layla; she’s clearly feeling bad enough as it is.
‘When’s he going?’ I hand the bottle back, wincing a little as Layla takes two more swallows.
‘Tonight.’
‘Tonight? But it’s only three days until Christmas.’
‘No rest for the wicked. Come on.’ Layla heads in the direction of the pool house, brandishing the bottle over her head like some kind of drunken tour guide.
The day is turning, the sky slowly melting from blue to almost black and the path across the lawn is lit by a string of tiny lanterns hanging from overhead branches and swaying in the evening breeze. We pass by the swimming pool, drained and covered for winter but host to all manner of decadent parties when the sun is high in the sky.
At the pool house Layla stops and plops down on to a wooden chair now devoid of any cushions.
‘I thought it would be more romantic.’
‘What would?’ I ask, thinking that baking fish and peeling potatoes isn’t exactly the ideal scenario for romance.
‘Paris.’ Layla slumps forward and I sit down next to her, easing the bottle from her grip and screwing the lid back on. It has been nearly three years since Layla left London to set up home in an appartement in Paris, complete with a view of the Eiffel Tower from its balcony. On paper it should have been perfect; in theory she should have been blissfully happy. But Paris, for all its beauty and wonder, has failed to become a real home.
‘I thought you found a new studio?’ We walked the streets of Montmartre together only a few months ago, searching for a space in which Layla could paint.
‘I did.’ Layla sits back up and draws her knees into her chest. ‘I mean, I have.’
‘But it’s not working?’
‘Nope. Seems that whatever filled Monet and Van Gogh and all those other geniuses with furious inspiration seems to have passed me by.’
I think back to Layla’s graduation show, to all those colours that seemed to melt together and create different pictures depending on which angle you looked at the canvas from. I know pretty much nothing about art, but even I could tell how incredible Layla’s work is. Or rather, was, because ever since moving to Paris she seems to have become clouded by disappointment and hasn’t been able to paint anything she’s willing to exhibit.
I blame Christophe. But I can’t tell her I think it’s her husband who’s draining her creativity, who’s turning her into someone she doesn’t want to be.
‘I think you’ll find their inspiration came from copious amounts of opioids,’ I say as I shuffle close and wrap my arm around her too-skinny frame. ‘And absinthe. And probably a load more booze.’
‘Not much fun getting shit-faced by myself.’ She rests her head on my shoulder and I breathe in the scent of her coconut shampoo.
‘I’m sorry.’ I’m so sorry I can’t be there for her. I’m also sorry that she can’t be here, for me.
‘Can’t you move to Paris?’ She tilts her head up to look at me.
‘Tempting as that is . . .’ I say with a sigh, because the idea of living in Paris with her is like something out of a film. I can picture the two of us walking along the Seine, eating croissants (although I think it’s against the law to eat carbs if you’re a French woman), drinking vintage champagne and being charmed by all manner of inappropriate men. The reality is, I don’t belong in Paris; but then I don’t seem to belong anywhere at the moment.
‘Promise me you’ll come visit again soon?’
‘I’ll try.’
We sit together a moment, the sound of Bonnie Tyler being played at full blast sneaking out of the house and across to us. It’s all so easy, so familiar, being here with Layla and her family, but I know it can’t last. I know that the bubble of Christmas will burst in only a few short days and then she will head back to Paris and I will be here, alone.
‘What are you doing for New Year?’ Layla asks.
‘I thought you were going to be in Paris?’
‘I’ve got this sudden urge to do something else. Be someone else.’
‘I know the feeling.’
‘Then let’s do it,’ she says, looking up at me like an expectant child. ‘You and me. Fly off somewhere without telling anyone. New York, maybe? Or even Sweden? Didn’t you used to go skiing in the mountains over New Year?’
‘I’d rather be on a beach than freezing my arse off. Speaking of, can we go back inside? I can barely feel my toes.’
‘Fine,’ she says, not bothering to hide the petulance in her voice. ‘One of Oscar’s friends is having a house party out near Henley. We can go there instead.’
‘Do we have to?’ I say as I stand, then help her to her feet. Any friend of Oscar’s is bound to be debauched, ostentatious and arrogant beyond belief.
‘He went to Oxford, I think. Or was it Cambridge? You might know him.’
Over the years I have learnt people assume that if you went to Oxford, it means you know everyone who ever went there, right back to the thirteenth century when the university was first created. It’s a bit like discovering someone comes from Manchester and asking them if they know your friend Kate.
‘Insanely gorgeous, judging by his Facebook page. Looks Italian, even though he grew up in London.’
It’s like all the air has been sucked from the sky, replaced by a sudden heaviness inside me.
‘What’s his name?’ The chances of it being him, being Leo, are surely close to nothing. But then again, fate and I don’t have the best track record when it comes to men.
‘Not sure,’ she says as we stumble over the lawn and back to the house. ‘Something beginning with S maybe? I’ll ask Oscar.’
‘No. Don’t. We can do better than a house party.’
‘If you say so.’ Layla stops by the back door, turning around and leaning against the wall, her head turned up to the starless sky. ‘What if I’ve made a mistake?’
‘About what?’ Although I can guess. Or I can at least hope, but that’s just me being selfish because I miss her; I miss having her in my life for more than a few days at a time. I miss our Sunday trips to the market, followed by a long, lazy brunch and then an afternoon spent on the sofa watching cheesy films and eating too much cake. Most of all, I miss having someone to take care of, to worry about another life other than my own.
‘Do you think Christophe would have moved here for me?’
No, I don’t. Because in my experience men are so rarely willing to sacrifice any part of their lives unless it benefits them directly. I blame all the fairy tales that condition young girls to grow up believing they can only achieve a happy ending if a Prince Charming is part of the deal. In contrast, boys grow up reading stories about adventures and generally having fun.
The only person I have ever met who was willing to give up anything of himself for the sake of love is Hector. He used to joke that I wore the trousers in our relationship, that he was the damsel who needed rescuing. Perhaps that’s why it didn’t work out: because I simply didn’t have the courage to try for his version of happily ever after.
‘You are allowed to change your mind,’ I say, although I doubt Layla would ever leave him. ‘Come home?’
‘This is one thing I don’t think even you can fix,’ she says with a drawn-out sigh, then clamps her hand to her mouth before bending over and vomiting into the bushes.
‘Come on,’ I say, rubbing her back and waiting for her to empty her stomach of all that rum. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’
Upstairs I help her get undressed, pull a clean t-shirt over her head and wipe a cool flannel over her face. I think she falls asleep even before her head hits the pillow, mouth agape and arms flung out either side. I wonder how many nights have ended this way for her recently, if she’s been covering up her sadness with too much wine, and my heart aches for the distance between u
s, but also because of the person who has taken her so far away from me.
There’s a small turtle figurine on her bedside table. I pick it up and trace the thin lines of paint with my finger. I have a near identical one at home. We bought them from a market in the Bahamas the first time I went to visit. The fact it’s here makes me wonder if Layla brought it with her from Paris, or whether it’s just one more thing she left behind when she moved across the sea.
Duncan and I once had a conversation about inevitability, about how at some point you make a conscious decision to push your life in a certain direction. The three of us sat up late, attempting to be philosophical, but given how much vodka we used to drink, I doubt much of what we said made sense. But ever since, every time I think about what has happened, I can’t help but wonder what my life would be like now if I’d chosen differently.
Looking down at Layla, lost in a drunken slumber, I wish she had chosen differently too. It feels like it’s happening all over again. That I’m losing all the people I love, one after the other, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
NIAMH
Gorgonise (v.) – to have a paralysing effect on someone
Stockholm, 1995
The three of them were sitting in a room that could only be described as a library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined two of the walls, with a huge fireplace and double-height windows on the others. There was a trio of dove-grey sofas set out in a U-shape in front of the fire, with pillows and throws aplenty to keep them warm.
The past week had been spent exploring Stockholm and visiting Christmas markets to buy traditional woven reindeer, and glass baubles to hang on the tree. Niamh had spent most of her waking hours either eating or helping to prepare more food that would be eaten at a later hour. As a result, she was stuffed and well rested, but also feeling a little guilty about being so content.
Erika’s parents lived in an enormous red-brick house on the outskirts of Stockholm. All week, there had been a constant stream of visitors, some of whom stayed overnight, but most simply popped in for a glass of champagne and a sliver of gravadlax on thinly sliced rye bread. Niamh liked to sit in the kitchen and lose herself in the unfamiliar scents of a Swedish Christmas. She would help herself from the omnipresent smörgåsbord (including cheese, which she ignored, cured meats and pickled herring, which surprisingly she had developed a taste for). There was always somebody on hand to top up her steaming mug of glögg and she would amble quite happily through the rest of the house, either in search of a quiet corner in which to read, or simply listening to all the conversations that danced around her.
‘What does smyga mean?’ Niamh asked as she reached forward for another treat from the platter on the coffee table. It was late on Christmas Eve and the house was subdued after hours of eating, drinking and swapping presents from under the tree.
‘Hmm?’ Erika turned her head, half her face disappearing into a cushion as she did so. They were attempting to watch Return of the Jedi because Erika liked the ‘little bear people’ and Duncan thought it was hilarious that she couldn’t actually pronounce the word ‘Ewok’.
‘Smyga,’ Niamh repeated, biting down on a star-shaped biscuit and glancing over to where Duncan was barely visible under a furry blanket. His mouth was hanging open and the sound of his snoring was mixing with the swoosh of a lightsabre from the television.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘You said it earlier. Upstairs in your room when you were getting ready and arguing with your mum.’
‘Did I?’
Niamh nodded and licked the salty juices from her fingertips. ‘You were talking about the summer. You said, Jag försöker bara att vara hjälpsam. And then your mum replied, Du kan vara så smyga ibland. I thought it might be “smug”, but that doesn’t quite make sense because then you said you’d learnt it from her.’
‘Since when do you speak Swedish?’ Duncan asked with a yawn as he rolled on to his side and reached out an arm for his mug of glögg.
‘I don’t. But Sister Ingrid was Swedish.’ Niamh stood up and stretched her arms above her head, feeling the pull of skin at her stomach and wondering if she could possibly fit in another biscuit. ‘She used to read me fairy tales and I still remember some of them.’
Duncan and Erika shared a look. So seldom did Niamh talk about her life back home, let alone her life at the convent before she was adopted, that they weren’t really sure how to react.
‘Plus I did German as part of my Highers, so I can kind of get the gist of what you’re all saying.’
‘I shall have to be more careful about what I say around you and your enormous brain,’ Erika said as she kicked off the rug under which she was cocooned, peeled off her socks and stood up. ‘It means sneaky.’
‘Why did your mum accuse you of being sneaky?’ Duncan drained his mug and lay back down.
Erika clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, which the other two both understood to mean that she was irritated at being caught out.
‘Because I was trying to do something nice,’ she said, picking up the empty mugs and looping her finger through the handles. ‘And she thinks I should have asked you first.’
‘Asked me what?’ Duncan said.
‘Not you.’ Erika pointed the mugs in Niamh’s direction. ‘Her.’
‘Me?’ Either she’d had too much glögg or it was far too warm in that room because she was starting to lose track of the conversation.
‘Apparently I should have asked whether you wanted to apply for a summer internship.’
‘You didn’t.’ Duncan sat bolt upright, looking between the two girls with a mixture of excitement and fear. ‘Did she get in?’
‘She has an interview. As do I, but I am sure it is a boot-in.’
‘Shoo-in,’ Niamh replied as she slowly sat back and tried to process what it was her so-called friend had done. Without her permission. Without even asking what she wanted to do with her time off in the summer. Which was so bloody typical of Erika, so she shouldn’t have been that surprised. But this was extreme, even for her.
‘It means we can spend the first part of the summer in London and then go inter-railing through Europe.’ Erika looked over at Niamh with raised brows, shifting her weight from foot to foot as if she were a small child who needed the loo.
Niamh didn’t reply because she was thinking back to when Erika told her about the gap year she had planned with Astrid. A year that would have been spent travelling across Europe, working in bars by the beach and falling in love with unsuitable men. It was a year that never happened, and Niamh couldn’t shake the feeling she was being used to fill in the memories Erika thought she would get to make with someone else.
‘What am I supposed to do?’ Duncan slapped Erika on the backside and she pushed him away with her bare foot.
‘You already told me you’re going on some weird monkey expedition to Cambodia.’
‘Am I not even invited?’
‘You can’t just decide what I’m going to do all summer.’ Niamh stood up, then sat back down again. She needed to move, to put her energy into something other than the desire to hit her friend over the head with a cushion, hard and repeatedly.
‘What were you planning on doing instead?’
‘I don’t know, because it’s months away. But that’s not the point.’
‘Then what is the point?’ Erika said with a distinct smirk and Niamh picked up the nearest cushion and hurled it in her direction, where it fell to the floor with barely a sound.
‘Not only are you smyga, you are also irriterande and kontrollerande.’
‘Even I understood what that meant,’ Duncan said as Erika went over to sit by Niamh.
‘You can stay with me. My parents have an investment flat they sometimes use in Chelsea, so you won’t even have to pay any rent.’
Niamh didn’t reply, because on the one hand she knew that part of what Erika had done was not due to malice, but rather an irritating desire to fix things. She just wished
it wasn’t always her that Erika was trying to fix. Was she really so sad and desperate and incapable of figuring anything out for herself that she needed a recalcitrant fairy godmother?
‘Look,’ Erika said as she crossed one long limb over the other. ‘If you really don’t want to do it, then just call Charlie and tell him.’
‘I will.’ Except she no longer had Charlie’s business card. Nor could she remember his last name. Neither of which she thought Erika was likely to provide her with, even if she did have the nerve to ask.
‘And whilst I am living my best life, you will be sitting all gloomy in Cork. Alone and miserable and wishing you had listened to me.’
She was infuriating because she was right, although Niamh was loath to give her any kind of satisfaction by telling her so. And would it really be so bad, living rent-free in one of the best parts of London?
Leo lived in London. Not that he was part of the decision, or indeed a reason to spend the summer there. Still, Niamh allowed herself, just for a moment, to imagine what it might be like to get up every morning and go to work in an industry she’d never thought was within her reach. How it would feel to try on the cloak of privilege, to rub shoulders with the uber-rich and spend her evenings exploring the city with Leo as her guide.
Of course, she couldn’t say any of this to Erika, who would no doubt have her own ideas as to who Niamh should be spending her free time with. Standing up for what felt like the umpteenth time, she went over to the nearest bookcase to pretend she was looking for something to read instead of thinking about a boy.
‘Niamh?’
Niamh turned her head at the sound of someone calling her name and saw Erika’s mother walking across from the kitchen with a parcel in her hand.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said with a smile as she came into the room and cast her gaze over the empty mugs and half-finished platter. ‘I put this aside earlier in the week and forgot to give it to you.’
‘What is it?’ Erika asked as she sprang to her feet and peered over Niamh’s shoulder.
The Love We Left Behind Page 13