Marnie emerged from the bathroom. Her hair was piled on top of her head, two long russet curls spiralling either side; her lips thick with gloss. She had on a sapphire shift dress, which matched her blue eyes and went beautifully with the shimmering viridian eyeshadow she was wearing. Everything about her was glowing and iridescent, as if she were a girl from the stars. Tomorrow’s Girl. She smoothed her dress down with her silver-tipped fingers. It rippled over the contours of her body like a waterfall. He grabbed her by the waist.
‘I want you,’ he said.
‘We don’t have time,’ she protested.
‘Come on, baby. We can be quick.’
He was pushing it. They were short of time as it was, but he wanted Marnie right then more than anything in the world.
Marnie twirled her silver bracelets. They looked like miniature planets orbiting each other.
‘If you give me a lift to work we might have time.’
‘You know I can’t. We agreed that we can’t arrive together.’
She took her green coat off the hook on the back of the door.
‘Well, then I had better be going. It can take over half an hour to get from South Ken to Russell Square, especially when it’s raining.’
He tugged at the sleeve of her coat.
‘Now don’t make me feel bad, will you?’
It had been Marnie who had first wanted to keep their affair a secret. She hadn’t wanted George thinking Lewis was giving her design work because they were sleeping together. She had wanted to be recognised for her own talent.
‘I could drop you at Green Park?’ he suggested.
‘And if you tell George about me today, we can drive the whole way in together tomorrow.’
There was a cheeky glint in her eye.
He watched her as she covered her lips with another smear of pale gloss.
‘Okay, darling.’ He kissed her again, tasting the synthetic lipstick, and still desiring her. ‘God, you’re gorgeous.’
She smiled at him, but there was that look in her eyes. She was stepping back from him – he could feel it.
‘I’m just a girl,’ she told him. ‘Like any other.’
‘You will never be just any girl, Marnie. You are my shining star.’
‘Oh what a charmer you are, Lewis Bell.’ She gave his face a gentle slap. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are. Just to be a man. It’s so much easier for you.’
She linked her arm in his as they went down the stairs.
Out on the street, she opened up her umbrella and they huddled beneath it. He put his arm around her, squeezed her to his side. They walked in unison, around the puddles. They could be invincible. Not a couple, yet more together than most marriages ever were.
‘Lewis, you will tell George about my design work today, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will.’
He meant every word.
‘You promise?’
Why couldn’t she trust him?
‘I have to be tactful. You know how old-fashioned George is . . .’
‘Sexist, you mean,’ she said, sounding glum.
She said nothing more for the whole ten-minute drive to Green Park. As she got out he leaned across, touched her arm.
‘Marnie?’
‘Yes.’ She turned to him.
‘I love you.’ He pulled her down and kissed her on the lips, but she was cold beneath his touch.
‘Trust me.’
‘Eventually the truth will come out, Lewis.’
She smiled yet it didn’t reach her eyes. He waited for her to tell him she loved him too, but instead she got out of the car, giving him a weak wave before stepping away.
He watched her walk across Piccadilly and down the steps into the Underground station, men turning to look at her as she went. There was no doubt about it, she was a stunning vision, her waist tiny, cinched in and belted in her green mackintosh, her russet hair like a crown upon her head. She was a jewel – something quite extraordinary in the dull London rain.
Two
Magnetic Field
Scottsdale, 14 March 1989
It was exactly two years ago that Joy and her father, Jack, had taken the Apache Trail. It had been the last time they’d gone on a wildflower hike together. It was during that trip that her father had told her he had cancer. She remembered the exact moment. They had been standing on the desert slopes beneath the Superstition Mountains, among the Mexican gold poppies and wild hyacinth. She had felt an overwhelming sense of dread. The dark mountains had gathered above her, reaching out with their long shadows into her soul.
‘What kind of cancer, Daddy?’ she had asked him.
‘Lung – but, honey, I’m going to get chemo. Everything is going to be okay.’
‘Of course, Daddy.’ She had clutched his hand and pushed her palm against his hard, worn skin. ‘You’re a fighter. You can beat it.’
She had tried her best to stay upbeat for her father, but their trip had been marred. The drive along the Apache Trail had lost its magic. They hadn’t done it since she’d been a little girl, and they had been planning this time together for the whole of the previous year. As she had crawled up the steep and precipitous Fish Creek Canyon she’d had the urge to let go of the wheel, let the car just slide back down and off the edge into oblivion. How could she live without the rock of her father keeping her upright?
‘He is not going to die,’ she had told herself. But in her gut she had felt something different. She had watched her father as they’d explored the fields of wildflowers. He with his little notebook and pencil, scribbling down drawings and notes, and she with her camera, attempting to take a few decent shots. Already Jack Porter had seemed less substantial. How had she not noticed that he’d lost so much weight recently? His skin wasn’t the right colour, and his rich brown eyes were cloudy.
Then there had been the day he’d disappeared. They had been wandering along one of the many paths the Salados had created, gazing at impenetrable canyons, exploring all the hidden caves. One minute her father had been right behind her and the next he was gone. She had retraced her footsteps along the path, calling out his name, but all she had heard was its echo. She had gone back to where they had been and still he was nowhere to be seen, so she’d returned again to where they’d started along the path and suddenly there he was.
‘Where’d you go, Daddy?’ she had asked him.
‘Nowhere. I’ve been right in front of you. What’s up?’
She had bitten her lip, shaken her head. She hadn’t wanted to frighten him. He had slipped away just for an instant. He had come back that day, but she had known he would go eventually.
That last day they had reached the Tonto National Monument and looked down upon the sapphire waters of Roosevelt Lake. The centuries-old saguaros reached up to the skies, their fat prickly fingers pointing to heaven.
She remembered her father had coughed as if to clear his throat. He had wanted to tell her something, but she had not wanted to hear it. She had thought it was more about the cancer and she had not been able to talk about it again. She had wanted to push the reality away from her. Joy reflected that it had most likely been the moment he had wanted to tell her the truth about herself. She was sure of it.
Her father had started to speak. ‘Joy, I need to tell you something . . .’
But she had pretended not to hear him. She had got back into the car and turned the engine on.
‘Come on, Daddy, we have to get home.’
She had driven fast, and in silence. An impenetrable quiet that neither she nor her father had been able to breach until they reached Scottsdale, and could leave those unsaid moments far behind.
‘Are you okay, honey?’ her mom asked her.
Joy was shivering, but not because she was cold. Never before had she had to stand up to her mother. They were sitting at the kitchen table. Her mom was still in her dressing gown. Joy had driven straight over to her house as soon as the sun had risen on Papago Butte. She hadn’t wan
ted to go home first because she knew Eddie would have changed her mind.
‘Mom, I need to talk to you about something.’
Her mom looked at her warily. ‘Well, it better be important since you dragged me out of bed so early in the morning.’
‘Mom, I haven’t brought this up before because I didn’t want to upset you. I know this past year’s been hard, but I have to ask you about something Daddy said to me the day he died –’
‘No!’ Her mother’s voice was suddenly sharp.
It was clear all of a sudden. Her mother knew she knew. How could she pretend nothing had ever been said? How could she never have mentioned it for a whole year?
*
When Lewis woke he felt different, as if he was still half submerged within his dream. He slipped out of bed, glancing at the alarm clock. It was 6 a.m. Samantha was turned away from him, a motionless shape under the covers.
He went downstairs into the garage, its heavy door banging against the wall behind him. He pulled out his toolbox, fumbling with the lock, and lifted the top tray off, showering screws and nails around him, his heart thundering. He saw it immediately, lying innocently on top of his hammer. He was not going crazy. This message from the past really did exist.
He picked it up, stared at the family-bathing scene on the beach in Ireland and flipped it over again to read the message. He tried to convince himself that he was only being sentimental for a time in his life that he had long since lost. This postcard represented an impossible dream. And yet here it was in his hands: a real possibility.
EVENTUALLY THE TRUTH WILL COME OUT
That was the only writing on the card. No name or return address. Just those words – and his own address on the back to leave him in no doubt that this lone sentence was for him. He tried to remember Marnie’s handwriting but found it impossible.
He looked at the stamp. It had Eire written on it. He knew that was the Irish for Ireland. It had to be Marnie because it was from her homeland with her words.
What truth was Marnie referring to? he wondered. The truth of their love for each other? Or the truth of his betrayal? In all these years he had never heard from her so why now?
*
By the time her daddy had got around to telling her, he had been able to say so little, but Joy remembered how he had gazed at her. She had felt his regret as he squeezed her hand tightly in his.
‘Joy, I have to tell you something . . .’
‘Don’t talk, Daddy – just rest.’
He had struggled in the bed as if he wanted to raise himself.
‘I’ve time for resting soon enough,’ he had croaked, trying to give her a smile. ‘There’s something I need to tell you, and I won’t be at peace until I have.’
‘Daddy, please don’t worry – it doesn’t matter.’ She had tried to placate him, get him to lie down again. But Jack Porter had been determined. He had lifted himself a few inches on his elbows and fixed her with a frantic stare.
‘Promise me that you’ll forgive me, darling.’
She had felt a thick smoke of fear seeping through her. What was he talking about? What could he have done?
‘Daddy, I love you. You could do nothing that would change that.’
‘Darling girl,’ he had whispered, closing his eyes for a moment as he dropped back onto the bed. ‘Your mother will be mad at me for telling you, but I just have to . . .’
‘It’s okay, Daddy, you don’t have to tell me anything –’
But her father had interrupted her with a rare spurt of energy. His voice had been suddenly crystal clear.
‘Joy, you’re adopted.’
She had nearly dropped his hand, almost fallen off the chair. It had been the last thing she’d expected her father to say.
‘No, Daddy, that can’t be true . . .’
But her father had talked over her. He’d told her that he and her mother had discovered that they couldn’t have children about five years after they had got married. He’d told her how hard it had been on her mother; how badly she’d wanted a baby. A cousin in New York knew of a young girl in Ireland who had wanted to give up her baby for adoption. It seemed meant to be. When they had brought baby Joy back to America they had decided to start fresh somewhere no one knew them or that their daughter was adopted. That’s why they had moved to Scottsdale – why they had never returned to New York.
Joy had felt dizzy, her head spinning in her father’s airless bedroom.
‘I’m so sorry we never told you before,’ her father had whispered. Already he had looked different to her. ‘Your mother thought it best.’
‘But, Daddy.’ She had felt tears filling her eyes. Why did he have to tell her this now? Break her heart apart at the very time she was about to lose him.
‘Do you mean that you aren’t my real father? And Mom isn’t my real mother?’
‘Oh of course we are, darling. I loved you from the moment I saw you. You have always been my daughter.’
She had felt him muster all his strength – squeeze her hand.
‘As soon as I saw you I knew you were my girl,’ he’d whispered. ‘You just reached out for me, darling, and I took you up and in my arms. We chose each other.’
Joy hadn’t wanted to push him for more details. He had been so weak and frail, and this revelation, as mind-blowing as it was, had been nothing compared to the fact that her father was dying. She hadn’t asked him why he had to tell her this now. She hadn’t asked him about her birth mother.
Joy had shoved the fact of her adoption to the back of her mind. She had even managed not to say anything to her grieving mother. Not one word in the past year. But the truth was tearing her apart.
Her adoption explained so many things. The fact she didn’t look like either of her parents. Or how she sometimes felt like an outsider in her own life; how she hankered for something she could never find in Arizona. Those dreams filled with the scent and sight of places she had never been. The land she was from and knew nothing about.
At first she had tried to talk to Eddie about it. He had been as shocked as her.
‘Well, how do you like that?’ he’d said, scratching the back of his head and looking at her as if with new eyes. ‘You’re not a true American after all. You’re an Irish girl.’
‘I want to find out more. I want to know where I’m from.’
‘It’s not worth it, Joy,’ Eddie had advised her. ‘Your parents are the people who raise you. Just give it up. You’ll only get hurt, baby.’
The problem was Joy couldn’t give it up. She had to know who she was.
*
Lewis put the postcard back into the tool tray. He was being an idiot to even think about Marnie. He and Samantha had been married for so long. That had to be worth more than a fantasy from his past.
He made amends by putting together a fruit platter for Samantha’s breakfast: pineapple, strawberries and slices of orange, arranging it all on one of her colourful Mexican dishes. He brought it up to her in bed with a cup of coffee.
‘Oh . . . thanks, Lewis.’ Samantha sat up, looking surprised by his sudden attention.
‘It’s what you like, right?’ he said, placing the tray on her lap.
‘You haven’t brought me breakfast in bed for years.’
‘I know; I’m sorry.’ He leaned forward and pushed a loose tendril of her hair behind her ear. ‘And I’m sorry about last night.’
‘What do you mean?’ She looked at him warily.
‘I should have made it more special.’
‘It was fine, really, Lewis.’ She popped a strawberry in her mouth.
‘Let’s go on a vacation,’ he said, seized by the moment. ‘We could take off for Easter. What about Hawaii?’
‘I can’t, I’m going to Santa Fe, remember?’
‘But wouldn’t you rather go away with me?’
‘It’s not that,’ she said, not meeting his eye. ‘I’ve promised Jennifer . . .’
‘Right.’ He didn’t understand it.
What was he doing wrong?
‘I’m sorry, Lewis.’
He tried to hide his disappointment, walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out a clean shirt.
‘Well, why don’t we go away this summer?’
‘Okay.’ She didn’t sound enthusiastic.
‘It always gets so hot here – it would be good to go somewhere cooler.’
He watched her in the mirror. She picked up a piece of pineapple, bit into it.
‘Let’s go back to London,’ he said.
Her eyes widened in shock.
‘Are you crazy?’
He walked over to the bed. ‘It’s been so many years, Samantha. I want to visit my home.’
‘But why? The London we knew is long gone, Lewis.’
She stroked his arm, and when he looked into her eyes he could see her fear.
‘I can’t go back,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You know I can’t.’
He saw tears springing. He wasn’t sure if they were real or not, but it moved him to kiss her – and for once she was kissing him back. She pulled him down to her and the fruit platter slid off the bed, spilling its contents onto the floor.
Lewis made love to his wife for the first time in months, and yet even in the heart of their passion, neither of them were able to look into each other’s eyes. It was a release, yes, but it also felt like an apology.
*
‘Daddy told me I was adopted,’ Joy ploughed on despite her mother’s protests.
‘I don’t know why he had to do that, Joy.’
‘So it’s true?’
‘Yes,’ her mom said, sounding agitated. ‘It’s true.’
‘Why did you never tell me?’
‘Because we didn’t want to hurt you . . . and we thought, what was the point?’ Her mom looked right at her. ‘What use is it to know that you’re adopted?’
‘Because it’s who I am, Mom.’
‘Who you are is Joy Porter, our daughter, a child of Scottsdale, Arizona. That’s who you are.’ Her mother sounded defiant. Joy tried another tack.
‘Please, Mom, I love you, and I loved Daddy.’ She grasped her mother’s cold hands. ‘I know I couldn’t have had better parents but Daddy said my birth mother was Irish. I just want to know who she was and her story…’
The Gravity of Love Page 3