The Fault

by Kitty Sewell

  ‘Well, I knew it was coming to this,’ he murmured to himself. ‘She’s gone looking for him.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Mimi said. ‘To ask him for a divorce. It’s bad, but it’s not what you make it out to be.’

  Sebastian punched the table with his fist. ‘It’s bad enough, Mimi! I don’t think you understand.’

  She glared at him. ‘I’m not stupid, Sebastian. You two are crap at communicating, that’s what I understand. She’s been trying to tell you about it, but you never want to look beyond the end of your own fucking nose. This Adrian guy wants her back. He’s pissed off, apparently. Big-time pissed off!’

  He was silenced by her outburst, but the truth was: she didn’t understand. He’d known all along that Eva was hiding things, and it wasn’t just her ‘personal’ secrets. Of course he’d known something was going on. It was his own fault. All along he’d been balancing intimacy with familiarity, yearning for one while avoiding the other. If he’d begun asking probing questions, she’d have done the same.

  Mimi stood before him with a cup of tea, that all-embracing elixir of life. He harnessed himself back into his senses and took the cup from her hands.

  ‘It’s only you I care about,’ he said.

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘How little you know me, sis.’

  ‘Have you taken your pills?’ she asked with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Of course I have,’ he said. ‘You can leave me alone now. I need to think.’

  Sebastian leaned back in Eva’s armchair. So she had left. But was the man she’d gone back to really her husband? What proof did he have that she was married? That passport she had in the name of Chantelle Hepping could mean something else, something totally different.

  Moment by moment he began to understand everything. The truth dawned on him as clear and flawless as crystal. It was as if he’d lived the last few months with a film over his eyes. Now he crossed straight through all the lies, evasions and subterfuge, beyond the boundaries of their pathetic intrigues, onto the universal truths. It was such a surge of power and insight, it literally flooded him with energy.

  Mimi

  Sebastian’s mood had been odd all evening, and now at 10.30 in the morning he still had not left his room. She sat in the kitchen debating whether to go and check on him, but if he’d given in to some much-needed sleep, she’d probably disturb him. Perhaps he’d left in the night, gone in search of Eva, prowling around the empty ramps and lanes and passages of Upper Town, stopping at times to howl into the darkness. Judging by how he’d been behaving lately, it wasn’t hard to imagine.

  She crept to his door and opened it a little. He was there, still dressed, on the bed. His eyes were open and she wondered if he was dead. He blinked. Closing the door, she went back into her room. She put on a pair of black satin pants and grabbed a powder-blue long-sleeved T-shirt of Eva’s. It still had that faint smell of Angel, Eva’s favourite scent. Mimi had given in to an urge to nick some items of Eva’s clothes, even if they weren’t her style at all. It was pathetic, like a toddler missing her mother.

  The landline rang in the kitchen and she dashed to answer it, assuming it to be Eva.

  No sooner had she blurted ‘Eva?’ than she realised it could well be this Adrian. Eva had given her no instructions about how to handle a call if it came.

  ‘Hello, Eva?’ A man’s voice.

  ‘No, she’s long gone,’ Mimi said emphatically. ‘And she’s not coming back.’

  A brief silence. ‘Are we talking about Eva Eriksson?’

  ‘She’s got a job in New Zealand. Leave her alone.’

  ‘I’d like a word with her. Have you got a number for her, please?’

  Mimi was quiet, trying to think clearly. This did not sound like a vicious stalker, more like someone phoning on some business purpose. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ there was a hesitation in his voice, ‘this is Henry Saunders.’

  ‘Who is Henry Saunders? What do you want with Eva?’

  ‘Henry Saunders of SeaChange International. I’d like a quick word with her, as I said.’

  ‘SeaChange? Isn’t it Sebastian you want to talk to?’

  Again, a pause. ‘No, actually, this concerns his fiancée. Who am I speaking to if you don’t mind?’

  ‘I’m Imogen, Sebastian’s sister.’

  ‘Ah, right, well, hello… I’ll try and reach Eva some other time.’

  Mimi thought about this. Perhaps it was better not to let on that there was trouble in paradise. It was none of their business anyway. ‘Yeah, good idea. Sorry I was stroppy. She’s gone shopping across the border. Call her another day.’

  She went back to her room and tried to write. Claustrophobia was making her skin twitchy, and her concentration was nil. Eva’s departure had left a yawning void in the apartment, and she couldn’t bear to look at the walls another minute.

  She looked for her bottle of Baileys and poured the last tiny squirt down her gullet. Would a joint settle that scuttling feeling? Prising up the plank to her hiding place, she reached into the spider nests for her stash of camel shit, but only succeeded in pushing it further under the boards. With her sleeve pulled up and her eyes closed, she was hauling out her hidden treasures, one by one, when the tips of her fingers grazed an unfamiliar object.

  With trepidation she pulled it out and wiped dust off it with her sleeve. It was a book, bound in leather and covered in grime. The pages stuck together and were crinkled with age. Rubbing at the cover, her finger traced the Ten Year Diary embossed on its surface.

  Soon she’d forgotten her terrible restlessness and – sprawled on Esther’s bed – became immersed in the life of its owner. The hours passed while Esther told Mimi her story. She told of her parents, Yanitos of old, who were the backbone of Jewish Gibraltar. She cried over her older sister who married a Pole and was murdered in the postwar pogroms with her husband. She begged God’s forgiveness for losing the first child she’d borne, Sofia, who died because of her mother’s ignorance, and the second who died fully formed in her womb. She laid bare her terrible grief, her wrenching guilt, her efforts, year after year, to carry a baby to term. She told of the husband who tried his best, but was of feeble temperament and frail health. She confessed her obsession with all forms of gambling, so unbecoming in a devout Jewish housewife. She berated her eating disorder, the constant weight gains and losses that drained her energies and made her ill. Then her frequent attempts at some final respite – mixing pills with alcohol – that never resulted in anything but a hideous hangover…and shame, an ever-present shame.

  When she could read no more, Mimi pulled out the green cloth with the tiny half-knitted cardigan, and cradled it to her chest. She looked at the pink toiletry bag where Esther had stashed that money and forgotten about it. She looked up and saw the beam with that awful hook in it, and understood why Esther’s final act had to be foolproof. There could be no redemption, nothing could be undone, and all the future held was a failing memory and loss of the last vestiges of dignity.

  Esther’s sorrow was too much to bear, on top of the fear she felt for Eva, and for Sebastian’s state of mind. Mimi drew her knees to her chest, and all the grief and fear she felt for the people she loved poured out of her in a tidal wave of tears.

  *

  She left a note on the floor in front of Sebastian’s door: Gone out for some groceries. There is hot decaf in the thermos. If you go to work, or anywhere, leave me a note.

  She zigzagged down through the upper town following ramps and steps, avoiding the streets that allowed traffic. The season was still at its height, but she thought the tourists had thinned out a little in Casemates Square and on Main Street.

  In the square in front of the cathedral she slowed her step. Where the hell was she going? She had little money on her, and she had no friends to go and visit. She’d seen Horst around and had listened to his sound sculpture from a distance, but was too embarrassed to talk to him. Mohammed was working at the mosque.
He had her phone number and they’d made a vague arrangement to meet later, depending on his duties, but she sensed he too was at some crisis point. The thought that he might have packed up his meagre belongings and hopped on a ferry to Morocco brought another rush of misery. It was bad enough that Eva had left.

  She came to a stop and just stood there in the square. People passed on every side, oblivious to her paralysis. Above her, the Levante cloud trailed like smoke from the summit, and the air was clammy. It felt as though a summer rainstorm were on its way.

  She turned to go back and jostled with groups of people going into the cathedral. In the crowd she saw Carlo’s head above the throng. Looking at him, she chuckled quietly to herself. Only yesterday he had his hands and mouth under the dress of a teenager. Now here he was, looking pious in a sombre suit, with a large crucifix around his neck, about to attend Mass.

  His gaze passed over her but it took him a couple of seconds to register that it was her – Mimi – devoid of makeup and in a too-large blue T-shirt. They were at opposite ends of the crowd and he waved briskly for her to join him in the queue. She didn’t really want to see him so soon after yesterday, but she could hardly ignore him.

  ‘Imogen,’ he said and kissed her on both cheeks, seemingly delighted to see her. ‘I was going to call you after Mass to see how you are.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ she said with a shrug. She could have used a friend to confide in, but he was the last person she trusted about any problem relating to Sebastian.

  Carlo bent down and peered closely at her face. ‘Have you been crying?’

  ‘No,’ she lied. ‘It’s hay fever or something.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, putting a paternal arm around her shoulders. ‘Come with me to Mass. It will help.’

  ‘No,’ she said, pulling away from him. ‘It wouldn’t help.’

  ‘Then let me buy you a cup of coffee somewhere.’

  ‘No, really. You go ahead.’

  ‘You’re more important,’ he said resolutely.

  They went to a tea shop up Canon Lane. It seemed to cater mainly to Moroccan men, wearing fez hats and long robes. The wonderful smell of honeyed mint tea wafted around the interior. The men looked sideways at the odd couple sitting down; him to a coffee and her, a mint tea.

  ‘Listen,’ he began earnestly. ‘I’ve been extremely unhappy about the way things concluded yesterday.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She knew what he meant. ‘We had a lovely lunch.’

  ‘Look. I wasn’t referring to the food. I mean what we…’

  She interrupted him. ‘There’s no need to talk about it, Carlo.’

  He clearly needed to talk about it. ‘You must be patient with me. We’ve merely begun to explore the possibilities.’ His eyes had taken on a disconcerting intensity. ‘Last night I realised we can break down the boundaries. Life is too short to worry about conventions.’

  She put her hand on top of his across the table. ‘I’ve done a lot of thinking, too. I don’t really want to pursue the… carnal aspect of our relationship.’

  ‘Oh, Imogen,’ he said, his eyes shiny with emotion. ‘I know I disappointed you, but give this bumbling beginner another chance, please. You won’t regret it. We need more time to explore each other and I’ve got a lot to learn. I want to make you feel very special. Please trust me.’

  She would usually give anybody a second chance –the first time was always tricky – but the certainty had dawned on her after yesterday’s lunch that she was never going to be romantically involved with Carlo.

  ‘I trust you,’ she said, ‘but I’m not in love with you, Carlo. For that reason alone, it’s not right. And add to that all the other reasons you yourself brought up the other day. It just wasn’t meant to be.’

  He withdrew his hand from hers and looked at her. ‘But Imogen, have I totally misunderstood you? You’re a true Renaissance woman, an explorer of life, a person searching and experimenting, taking risks and learning from those risks. That’s why I am so attracted to you, so fascinated by you.’

  She tried hard not to feel flattered.

  He leaned forward again, grabbing her hands and looking deeply into her eyes. ‘You wanted me,’ he whispered. ‘I know you did. That much I could tell.’

  She recoiled slightly. ‘Perhaps I did. But what does that mean? It’s not something that makes a relationship.’

  Carlo didn’t accept what she was trying to tell him. He held on to her and spoke vehemently. ‘I really let you down yesterday, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘I will put it right.’

  She glanced at the other tables, trying not to show the crawling unease she felt. She realised how she’d led Carlo down the garden path. Why had she not understood the sort of man he was and the expectations he might have? He was an ex-priest with just one unconsummated love affair behind him. Breaking his chastity vow had been a momentous step, especially for a man his age. He had not done it lightly. Oh God, she should have been more cautious! Even poor Mohammed had seen it coming and tried to warn her.

  ‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression.’

  ‘Wrong impression!’ he said heatedly. ‘We went to bed together. We were intimate. What impression am I supposed to take away from that?’

  ‘I don’t mean to trivialise it, but in my book, we didn’t actually do anything, Carlo. Anyway, I guess my generation sees things differently. It’s not a big deal to…you know…have a one-time fling with someone.’

  She immediately regretted her words. She could see on Carlo’s face that he detested the very concept and anyway, she herself had never enjoyed one-night stands.

  ‘You contradict yourself, Imogen. You just said it’s no big deal to have a loveless ‘fling’, yet you say our relationship is untenable because you’re not in love with me.’

  ‘Maybe it is a contradiction, but I am sure you understand what I’m telling you.’

  ‘If you find it that easy to have a fling with someone, does it mean you pick men up and dump them at will? Was that what you were planning for that Horst?’

  ‘That’s well out of order!’ she protested.

  Heads turned in their direction. Reaching for her bag, she hooked it onto her shoulder and pushed her chair back but Carlo leaned over and grabbed her wrist, forcing her down into her seat.

  The hairs on her arms rose and a shadow of fear fluttered through her chest. She glanced around, trying to reassure herself. The place was full of men. Nothing could happen in this public place, surely.

  ‘Let go of my arm, Carlo,’ she murmured.

  His grip on her wrist instantly relaxed, but he didn’t let go. He looked pale and almost in shock at her rejection.

  ‘Look,’ she said, her voice too pleading. ‘Why don’t we clock yesterday up as a mistake and just go back to being fellow writers and friends. These little blunders can happen between friends.’

  ‘I don’t deal in superficialities, flings and blunders,’ he answered coolly. ‘I’ve fallen in love – deeply – even if you haven’t. It’s early days, Imogen. You owe me another chance.’

  ‘No, Carlo, I owe you nothing.’ She got to her feet and just as quickly, so did he. They looked at each other across the table. ‘I’m leaving now. I am going by myself.’

  ‘Okay Imogen,’ Carlo said at last. His voice was calm but his eyes said it all: He was angry and distraught by the rejection. ‘If that’s how you feel. But I’m not giving up on you.’

  Eva

  Benalmadena Pueblo turned out to be just that, a small traditional pueblo perched between the motorway and the conglomeration of the coast. She wandered through pedestrian alleys lined with whitewashed houses, old wooden doors and geraniums spilling out of window boxes. Several restaurants surrounded a quaint little plaza. Just off it was a nice-looking hotel.

  ‘Oh, yes, we have vacancies,’ said the proprietor. ‘Two days ago we were booked up, but now there are lots of rooms! The high season has gone on holiday.’

 
; ‘I don’t know how long I want to stay, but can I pay by day?’

  ‘No problem.’

  Three days went by and she paced the streets, glancing behind her, sometimes trying to concentrate on a book, rolling restlessly on the bed at night, unable to eat more than bites of food. Come nightfall, she would go straight for a double of anything in one of the bars. Adrian could be anywhere. He could be watching her every move, taking pleasure from her squirming like a worm on a hook, waiting for her bluster to deflate and fear to set in – or he could have lied about being near her. He could be on his way, he could be laughing back home in Half Moon Bay, California, or at work in L.A. And she would be here waiting. The wait was intolerable, but even so, she tried to settle into it and began to like Benalmadena Pueblo. The people were friendly, the streets clean, the hotel impeccable.

  The thought of Sebastian caused a hollow pain in her chest. She’d tried calling him a few times but he was clearly avoiding her calls, and she felt a deep sense of shame for what she must be putting him through. Sebastian was a proud man, and perhaps he thought she and Adrian had reconciled and were having a second honeymoon in some nice hotel. She wrote him an email, trying to explain her feelings and actions, but got no reply. And Mimi… she dropped her a line every day, but didn’t mention the money lest committing it to paper would compromise the girl in some way. She wanted Mimi to forgive her for letting her come close and then abandoning her like this (being no better than her mother). Her only excuse was her thoughts for their safety, and her determination to put an end to her past by coming face-to-face with her pursuer.