by Beth Corby
The music wraps around us as the curtain rises and the first dancers come on stage. I watch, transfixed, as the story I know so well unfolds in front of me. The passion is just as raw and Romeo and Juliet’s love is just as tangible in the dancers’ movements as it is in words – if not more so. At one point I sneak a glance at Alec, but he’s so immersed in the story that he doesn’t even notice. I rest my cheek on the balcony rail, quickly slipping back into the action, and I almost feel yanked off the stage when the curtain comes down and the lights go up for the interval.
I blink, dazed.
Alec touches my shoulder. ‘Would you like a drink?’
I stretch and nod. We make our way out to the busy bar, and I wait to one side as Alec finally makes it to the front of the queue and returns with two glasses.
‘Are you enjoying it?’ he asks, handing me a white wine.
‘It’s amazing! I didn’t think it would be so intense.’
‘They are very good,’ he says knowledgeably.
‘You’ve been to the ballet before, then?’
‘I used to go with my grandmother. She loved the ballet, the theatre and the opera.’ From the look on his face I can see that he did, too. ‘None of the rest of our family appreciated it, and she used to say she wasn’t going to have some philistine sat next to her yawning and snoring for two hours when she could have me.’
I sip my wine, and we watch the people milling around us.
‘It sounds nice,’ I say.
‘It was,’ he agrees, and we people-watch until the bell rings for the second half.
As soon as the curtain goes up, I’m pulled straight back into the action and before I know it, Juliet is waking to find Romeo dead and Alec’s handing me a tissue. I take it, wiping my eyes as I will Romeo to wake up. It doesn’t matter that I know it’s hopeless; I can’t help it. I feel Alec’s hand slip into mine and give a little squeeze. I glance at him and he smiles sadly. Back on the stage, Juliet takes the knife and stabs herself in the chest, and I barely manage to stop myself gasping. In her last dying moments she reaches for her dead beloved and I stare, grief stricken.
The curtain falls. The audience breaks into heartfelt applause. I realise my hand is clamped closed around Alec’s. Embarrassed, I let go, and slowly begin to clap, finally getting a hold of myself as the curtain goes up again. I sniff and clap louder as the performers bow, and as Romeo and Juliet come forward, I get to my feet with the rest of the audience to give them a standing ovation. Who knew that, even without words, it could be so powerful?
When the curtain has gone down for the last time, Alec leads me out into the street, where the fine drizzle and street lights finally bring us back from Verona and Mantua.
We don’t talk much in the taxi back, and as Alec walks me to my room, neither of us has anything to say. The atmosphere is strangely charged, and we slow as we approach my door.
I take out my key card and fiddle with it. ‘Thanks for taking me. It was wonderful.’
‘I’m really glad you enjoyed it. Donald would be ecstatic. No need to worry about your soul!’ He looks down at me. He’s standing slightly too close, but I don’t move away. I clear my throat.
‘We’ve completed another task,’ I say as casually as I can manage.
‘Yes. You can have the next letter in the morning, if you like?’
I’m already thinking about the next part of Donald’s story and I’m not sure I can wait. I look up at Alec. ‘Or you could give it to me tonight? What do you think?’ I ask.
Alec’s frown deepens, and I’m about to ask whether he could pop back to his room and get it, when his lips land on mine.
I jerk back and before I know what I’m doing, my palm collides sharply with his cheek.
‘What the hell was that for?’ he shouts, clutching his face, his eyes wide.
‘What do you mean, “what the hell was that for?”,’ I demand, shocked at what I’ve just done. ‘That was for kissing me!’
‘But I thought that’s what you meant by all that “give it to me tonight” talk.’
‘What? I meant the bloody letter. It wasn’t some innuendo, you moron!’
‘How the hell was I supposed to know?’
‘You’ve been all over my sister for the last few days!’
His hand drops away. There’s a livid hand-print on his cheek, but it isn’t half as livid as I am.
‘What?’ he demands.
‘You heard! We’re not interchangeable, you know.’ I’m glaring at him so furiously he steps back.
‘I didn’t think you were! Is this because she kissed me?’
‘Oh, she kissed you, did she?’
‘Yes, actually, she did. She caught me completely off guard and you opened your door while I was still trying to figure out how to disentangle myself without upsetting her. I thought you knew that. Lauren said she’d explain.’
‘Really?’ I say, my voice dripping with disbelief. ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it, and you have to admit you weren’t exactly fighting her off when I saw you.’
‘I was caught by surprise!’
‘Look what just happened when you caught me by surprise!’
‘Are you suggesting I should have slapped Lauren?’
‘Of course not, but you could have tried harder to stop her, and you spent a whole lot of time with her for someone who isn’t interested.’
‘I was doing you a favour.’
‘Thank you very much,’ I say, my voice heavy with sarcasm.
‘I don’t mean . . .’ Alec pushes his hands distractedly through his hair, and looks up and down the corridor, then back at me. ‘She’s your sister, I was trying to make her feel welcome.’
I reduce my voice to a hiss as a door opens further down the corridor. ‘Then you did a hell of a job!’
We glare at each other as the other guests leave their room, wait for the lift and get in. Finally the lift doors close behind them.
‘For God’s sake, she’s your sister!’ Alec shouts.
‘I know! What do you want? Applause?’
‘I didn’t mean that. I meant I wouldn’t . . .’ Alec closes his eyes. ‘I’m sure your sister is very nice and everything, and perhaps she is a lot like the other women I’ve been with—’
‘Oh, whoop-di-doo!’ I say, and a porter who has just come around the corner retreats the way he came. Seeing him, I suddenly realise how futile and ridiculous this all is. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, it doesn’t matter. Just leave it.’ I turn to go into my room.
‘You’re not even going to let me explain?’ Alec demands.
‘No, because it’s been a really long, emotional day, and I’ve had enough,’ I say, trying to keep the wobble out of my voice.
‘Give me five minutes.’
‘No, all you need to say is that you will not be kissing me again, and I think we’re both already pretty clear on that.’
‘Damn right,’ he mutters.
I flush with fresh anger and hurt. ‘Goodnight,’ I say, my voice cracking. I look down at the key card, which I’ve almost bent in half, and stab it into the slot seven or eight times, trying different ways round until the light goes green. I give him one last withering look and storm into my room, slamming the door in his face. Or at least I try to, but the stupid thing has a slow-close mechanism, so it doesn’t quite have the desired effect.
It finally clunks shut and there’s silence. Part of me expects him to calm down and try to say sorry, but he doesn’t knock. After a few minutes, I realise he must have gone to his room.
‘Bloody hell,’ I say out loud, and feeling suddenly limp, I kick off my shoes and collapse onto the soft sheets of the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
How dare he kiss me after Lauren. And why would he want to after his remorse last time? He’s never explained. He’s never apologised, and yet he tries to kiss me again? Tears slide down my temples and pool in my ears, but I don’t know if they’re from anger or hurt. I get up, take a few deep breaths to calm myself
, and go to wash my face, savouring the cool, cleansing effect of the water. I scrub my face dry with a soft white towel, and sit on the edge of the bath for I don’t know how long, staring at nothing in particular, lost in my own head. After a while I start to feel cold, and suddenly all I want is to be nestled in bed.
Coming back into the bedroom, I see an envelope has been pushed under the door. It’s one of Donald’s – Alec must have been here while I was in the bathroom. I bend to pick it up and turn it over to see Alec’s writing scrawled across the back.
‘I’m going home. Do what the hell you like. Alec.’
I stumble back to sit on the bed. It’s almost like he’s slapped me. Is he serious? He’s leaving me here alone?
I reread his scrawl, unable to understand why he thinks he has any right to be angry. He kissed Lauren. Or she kissed him . . .
Unsure what to believe, I slide my finger under the flap and take out Donald’s letter, vowing that if it’s anything like the one about Billy, I’m going home, no matter what Mrs Crumpton says, or how much work Donald put into everything. I pull in a deep breath and start reading.
My Dearest Hannah,
London – what a place! It has a wealth of everything in its extremes: joy and hopelessness, parties and loneliness, high life and poverty. It is both heaven and hell in equal measure. Where the country is stable, safe and peaceful, London is the opposite. I both love and hate London, though perhaps love just tips the scales.
What have you made of London so far? I’m hoping you have seen the bright side that I saw when I first moved there. The hotels, the theatres and through the ballet I hope you experienced what it feels like to be in love – short of you actually falling in love, it was the best way I could think of for you to encounter that sensation in all its glory and heartache. But let me begin where my story left off, or nothing will make any sense at all:
In the early months of 1963, when I was nineteen, and about six months after my happy arrangement with Mabel, a typewritten envelope arrived for me with a London postmark. My parents didn’t open it as it was addressed to me and looked official, but I knew it was from Judith just by being in the same room as it. I took it to my bedroom, tore it open and read it with such shaking hands that I had to reread it twice to make any sense of it. The gist was that she was asking me to come to see her in London. She said she needed me, and, of course, I went.
I packed a few things in a bag, took my earnings, and caught a bus and a train. Then, from a bustling London train terminus, I took a taxicab to Judith. She had rooms at a respected hotel – her husband thinking that living in London and experiencing the capital’s high life would entertain Judith while he travelled.
What I saw in her face when I arrived worried me. Having first checked the hall for busybodies, she swept me into her room and held me very tightly. Then she kissed me so desperately and disarmingly that we got carried away and tumbled into bed together. Our love-making was short, I will admit, but very sweet, and afterwards as she lay in my arms, she cried and told me everything.
She told me how grown-up she had felt getting engaged; how much she had enjoyed the presents and the courtship, how big the wedding was and how she had basked in the glow of her friends’ envy. Then she told me of her wedding night. She had expected it to be wonderful – a rite of passage, a blossoming into womanhood with fireworks and confetti – but what she’d experienced was painful and horrible, and above all, lonely. She told me she hadn’t felt deflowered but defiled, and when he went to sleep, she had cried silently into her pillow wishing that we had been together first. Their times together still weren’t good, she confided. She didn’t feel nurtured or cosseted, but like she was performing a loathed and most unpleasant duty.
Then she described how, after their honeymoon, the army set and their wives had swallowed them up. She really hated those wives. They felt duty-bound to induct her into ‘the way things are’. They laughed at her naivety as they opened her eyes to the brutal realities of their husbands’ mistresses, their children at boarding school, and all their outward show. She said their bile burned her every time they met, but her lowest point came when they met to play tennis. A lady was pointed out to her, a Mrs Anderson – older, but still lovely. She was another man’s wife . . . and her own husband’s mistress.
Her downfall complete and unable to talk to her husband, family or friends, she did the one thing she felt she could. She sought out someone trustworthy. She wrote to me, taking care to type the letter to give it the greatest chance of reaching me unread.
And that is how my affair with Judith began.
Complete another task and I’ll tell you more.
Anticipatingly yours,
Uncle Donald
I close my eyes trying to absorb it all, and then I turn the letter over. There’s nothing more. I check the envelope and then drop to my knees, feeling around on the floor in case the task has fallen out. I open the door and check the hall for a second envelope or a Post-it note that has peeled off, but there’s nothing. I let the door close, realising there’s no task – no next move, or instructions for what to do next. Did Donald forget?
What am I supposed to do? I’m in London by myself and I’m not even sure if the room is paid for. An edge of panic starts to creep in, and I take a few deep, calming breaths. I have to think practically. I’ll have to pay for a whole night now regardless, so I might as well stick it out and hope that Alec returns. And if he doesn’t . . .
‘Then he’s a bastard,’ I announce to the room, though I know he isn’t really . . . even if he did kiss Lauren, which he says he didn’t.
I think back on our argument and his insistence that Lauren had said she’d explain, and sit down on the bed as a nasty suspicion steals over me. I think back to this morning: the furtive look he gave me at breakfast and how he left me and Lauren to have a sisterly goodbye. And then there are the questions I was asking myself earlier. Why would Alec try to kiss me again if it was so awful the first time? Reasonable conclusion: he wouldn’t. Why would he kiss me if he was involved with Lauren? Reasonable conclusion: he wouldn’t. Or he’s actually a bastard and he would. I wait for this to ring true, but it doesn’t. Perhaps it would have done a few weeks ago, but I know him better now. He’s a good person, and he’s never lied to me unless at Donald’s instigation. So why would he think she explained about the kiss when she didn’t? Has Lauren been messing with me? I think back over all the times I’ve seen them together and mentally stumble over their kiss goodbye. Would Lauren really kiss his cheek if they were dating? She’s practically suctioned the face off past boyfriends, even in front of our parents.
I put my head in my hands. Oh, shit. There is a reasonable chance that I’ve been wrong about him and Lauren. Part of me leaps at the possibility, while the other part is searching for a rock to hide under.
I glance at my mobile, wondering if I should give him a chance to explain, or whether I should let him cool off first. I suppose I could call Lauren and try to get the story from the horse’s mouth, but I doubt she’ll be honest with me, and besides, her gloating will be unbearable.
And there’s still the issue of paying for all this. I stare hopelessly at the room. I can’t call my parents – they’ve already helped me out enough financially and asking them to pay for an expensive London hotel room would really take the biscuit. I pick up my purse and search through the compartments, hoping for a stray twenty-pound note or five. Instead, I find Mr Sanderson’s business card. I suppose, if I haven’t sorted anything out by morning, I could give him a call and see if he can do anything.
I close my eyes, amazed that I am in a London hotel room contemplating calling my solicitor. What is my life coming to?
One thing’s for sure, nothing can be done before morning. I pick up the remote and switch on the TV. There’s nothing good on so I settle for a documentary on space and after changing into my pyjamas, I snuggle down under the covers to learn how black holes are made. I watch the swirling mass
of galaxies, and do my best not to picture my relationship with Alec disappearing down this ultimate plughole, but I can’t help it. There’s no way of rescuing it now.
Chapter 21
I wake with a start and roll onto my back. My mouth is dry, my head aches, and my eyes feel like they’ve been peeled by an amateur kitchen hand. For a moment I wonder if the banging I’m hearing is just the pounding in my head, but then I realise there’s someone knocking at the door. I clamber out of bed. Hearing yet another knock, I picture a disgruntled porter standing in the hallway, tapping his foot and looking at his watch.
‘I’m just packing,’ I shout. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’
There’s another knock, and I tiptoe over to peek through the spyhole. Jane’s standing outside looking up and down the corridor. I give my heart a second to slow down.
‘Hello Hannah,’ she calls. ‘It’s Jane. Can I come in?’
‘Yes, of course! Sorry,’ I say, turning on the light and yanking open the door. ‘I thought you were hotel security.’ Jane gives me a confused look. ‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ I try to explain. ‘Not that I’m not happy to see you – I am,’ I add quickly, rubbing my eyes and ushering her in.
‘I’m here for your next task. Didn’t Alec tell you?’
‘No, and Donald didn’t mention anything in his letter, either. I thought he’d forgotten.’
‘No, he didn’t forget – I’m here to take you out for the day.’ She looks at me doubtfully. ‘Would you like a shower first?’ she asks tactfully, and I catch sight of my tangled hair and panda eyes in the mirror.
‘Er, yes,’ I agree sheepishly. I pick up a bath towel and some underwear and stumble into the bathroom. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ I call.
The shower is heavenly and I can’t help taking a few extra minutes under the hot water, before emerging in a hotel dressing gown with make-up done and hair brushed. The curtains are now open and Jane is tucking into some pancakes. She gestures that I should do the same, but my heart stops at the thought of the bill. My credit card probably won’t take the strain of the basics, let alone extras.