I Couldn't Love You More

by Esther Freud

  ‘I feel bad for his poor wife. She won’t know why I’ve stopped going on over for a cup of tea.’

  ‘She married him.’ Rosaleen stretched. ‘She’ll know what he’s like. Although look at our mother: she’d have us believe the sun shines out of Daddy’s arse.’

  ‘Rosaleen!’

  She pressed her toes into her sister’s side and tickled, and hard as she tried Angela couldn’t stop herself from laughing.

  SUNDAY CAME ROUND in a flash. ‘What should I wear?’ Angela wanted to know. ‘I’ve never been to an art gallery.’

  ‘Your blue skirt, you’ll be fine.’ Rosaleen glanced at her own reflection, at her hair, which was already flipping up below her ears. She had a cotton dress in black and white with short capped sleeves and a tight band around the bodice. There were ballet pumps that matched, and for once she felt just right. Angela stood beside her at the mirror. ‘You look swell.’ The sisters smiled into the glass.

  FELIX LICHTMAN. His name was in large letters on the gallery wall, and beside the door, restless, shuffling from one foot to the other, was Felix himself. ‘Are we late?’ Rosaleen ran towards him, and he caught her round the waist and kissed her. ‘This is Angela.’ Her sister came panting behind, and fearful she may have pulled her backwards into childhood, Rosaleen blushed. But Felix looked at Angela with a clear, appraising eye. ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’

  There was no one else at the gallery. They stood in silence, the work arranged in the old familiar order, the stone man filling the whole of the first room. Rosaleen put her hand out and drew it back. ‘It’s all right,’ Felix said, and she rested her palm lightly on its head. It was cold, and quickly warming, every chiselled pang rising through her arm, and turning to Felix she saw in his face the days and nights, the weeks, the years of work.

  Angela walked through to the next room and when they followed they found her backed away from the creatures. ‘Could you tell me what they are, Mr Lichtman?’

  ‘I couldn’t.’ Felix didn’t smile.

  They all three circled, examining their movement and their horror, inspecting them as if they might have found a way in on their own.

  ‘Lunch?’ Felix suggested. They filed out into the heavy summer day and, leaving his name emblazoned, climbed into a taxi and sped through the Sunday streets. Rosaleen didn’t ask where they would go. She sat with Angela beside her and let the rush of air from the open window mess her hair. Felix leant forward on the tip-up seat and talked to the driver: London talk, sporting talk, talk of the world. She reached across and squeezed her sister’s hand.

  The café had red Formica tables and a counter behind which large snowy cakes were arranged. They found a table at the back and sat in silence as they examined the menus. Omelette, soup of the day, croque-monsieur – whatever that was – and a list of gateaux. ‘I think I’ll have cake,’ Felix decided, and he looked round for a waitress. Rosaleen saw Angela’s eyes widen. Is that allowed? In answer she pushed away her own menu. ‘Let’s see what they have.’ The two girls slithered from their seats and stood at the counter staring at the frosted flowers, the stripes of sponge seamed with jam and cream.

  In the end all three of them had cake. One slice, and then another. ‘Anyone for pudding?’ Felix asked when they had scraped their plates, and Angela, giddy with freedom, jumped up to have a look.

  ‘So?’ Rosaleen leant across. ‘Are we alike?’

  Felix turned and glanced thoughtfully at Angela. ‘The gentle sister.’

  It had always been the case. ‘The favourite.’ The old despondency descended.

  ‘Not with me.’ He nudged her foot.

  Angela was back with a tall almond pastry, and Felix waved over for the bill.

  It had started to rain, light and warm. ‘A day for the park, I think?’ Felix tilted his face to the sky, and they walked through Marylebone and, dodging traffic, ran across the Euston Road. Once or twice when they were children they’d been to Regent’s Park, dressed in their best, on a day out with their parents to meet Uncle Joe and Auntie Elsie, and their cousin Patricia. Rosaleen remembered the rat-tat of Daddy shouting to them: not to walk on the grass, disturb the flowers, drip ice cream on their clothes. Patricia was a boarder at St Joseph’s too, a shy girl cowed with misery, and they’d trudged dutifully ahead, the adults behind, the two couples, arm in arm, laughing and talking about what she’d never know.

  They were halfway across the grass when the rain gathered strength and they raced for cover, huddling in under a tree. Rosaleen closed her eyes and let the thud of the downpour surround her. It filled her ears and tingled her scalp and she longed to stand close in to Felix, feel the heat of him, steal some for herself. She pushed against the trunk and let the damp raise her curls to a frizz. ‘Rosaleen?’ Angela’s voice drifted as if from far away, and she found the rain had quieted and Felix was stepping out from the shelter of the tree.

  ‘Wait for me.’ She shook herself and, slipping off her shoes, took her sister’s hand and raced with her across the grass and along the road to the inner circle of the park, where the roses were winking and heavy with wet. Felix had kept pace with them, running as if in some crazy kind of dance, twirling and swooping and tapping both heels in the air, and now he leant down and snapped off a dark red stem and, his fingers bloody with stray thorns, slid it between the buttons of Rosaleen’s dress. He turned to Angela. ‘A white flower for you.’

  Angela was shivering. ‘What if someone sees?’

  There was no one on the path, and no one on the lawn, and so he found a smooth white rose and tucked it behind her ear.

  They walked until they reached the lake. Boats bumped against the shore, their plank seats oiled with water. The boatman sat smoking in his hut. ‘Good afternoon.’ Felix raised his hand, and the man nodded, flicked his cigarette. They kept on walking as the park came back to life, dogs, bicycles, children free of macs, and on the lake, boats launching off, couples, families, a man and his daughter, rowing round and round.

  * * *

  The private view was less glamorous than Rosaleen expected. She’d imagined women in cocktail dresses, men in pinstripes, but for the most part there was the same dishevelled crowd that packed into the French pub. ‘Has anyone seen the artist?’ a woman, loud and drunken, called across their heads.

  ‘He stepped inside, saw that lot,’ the man beside her pointed to a trio of old ladies, ‘and vanished.’

  ‘Get me another glass of this disgusting plonk.’ She held out her empty glass, and he hurried obediently towards the makeshift bar.

  Rosaleen circled the three women. They were dressed in black, their silver hair elegantly arranged. They talked in an urgent, guttural tongue, and as she hovered Rosaleen slid her eyes sideways and found herself caught by a pale blue stare. She swallowed and put out a hand to touch the stone head, and then, remembering, balled her fingers into a fist. She wanted to look again, see the proud way the woman held herself, the familiar mouth, the curve of her chin. Instead she sipped her wine and moved away.

  A new troupe of people had arrived. The door was left open on to the street as others crowded the pavement, smoking, laughing, hushing a little as they stepped inside. Here they waved to each other and swiped fresh drinks from the tray.

  In the second room it was harder to ignore the art. A small group stood quiet before the creatures. The flock looked different when in company, more terrifying, more afraid. Rosaleen collected words, compiling a list for Felix. Fury. Persecution. The three old women came through and stopped abruptly at the door. One swayed and raised a hand to her head, and the others held tight to her and glared. There was another one. Revenge.

  They came no nearer but stood blocking the door, and for the longest time it seemed no one could move, but then a woman with a stick, a regular at the French pub, burst past and swore. ‘Bugger it. No wine in here either!’ The spell broken, the woman with Felix’s sharp eyes turned and, with the others following, moved through the crowd.

  Rosale
en waited on the street. Surely he would come back now? She stood on the corner as the last guests straggled by, some in couples, others sauntering off alone, a large group arguing over where they might go on to. She caught sight of a few she knew, but they didn’t look her way.

  When everyone had gone she walked through the quiet streets of Mayfair. Her arms were chilled and her ankles slipped against the straps of her sandals. She’d dressed for a taxi. She glanced into gentlemen’s outfitters, wood-panelled barbershops, the glossy window of a department store as she wound her way towards the British Museum. It was dark by the time she arrived, the sandstone pillars lit like torches, the sentry boxes empty. Felix’s building was dark too, only one flicker of a light three storeys up. Rosaleen waited, unable to decide whether to ring the bell. What if he was sleeping, or he’d started some new work? Or maybe – her stomach hollowed – he was entertaining a guest? The pavement slipped beneath her feet, and she clung to the handle of the door.

  ‘Hello.’ Felix’s flat voice came through the grille. Did he think by deadening the vowels he could make himself unknown?

  ‘It’s me,’ and before she could explain he told her he’d be down.

  He must have run because she’d hardly had time to smooth her hair before he was with her on the step.

  ‘What took you so long?’ With a hand on the small of her back, he steered her ahead of him up the stairs.

  The flat was empty, she’d forgotten to expect that, but on the one small table there was a bottle of champagne. ‘There really was no one else I wanted to see.’ He looked at her so intently she felt her limbs dissolve.

  ‘I wanted to see you too.’ She berated herself for doubting. ‘I needed to see you.’ For a long time they stood wrapped together and then, calmed, they hobbled through to the next room and fell down on to the bed.

  ‘It was good . . . ,’ Rosaleen told him.

  ‘What was good?’ He held a button in his mouth.

  ‘Your exhibition.’

  His fingers were undressing her.

  ‘Your mother . . .’

  He stopped.

  ‘Was it your mother?’

  He drew away from her although he hadn’t moved. ‘I told them not to come.’

  ‘But why?’

  A needle struck him in the eye. ‘Aghh.’ He reared his head as if to shake it out.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, severe, but his strength had drained away.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Rosaleen lay with her head on his shoulder. She glanced at him. His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling.

  ‘Everyone loved it,’ she tried, and when he didn’t answer she turned and curled into his side.

  ‘We’ll go away.’ He folded himself around her. ‘The two of us.’

  She wasn’t sure that she believed him. ‘What am I to tell them at work?’

  ‘Compassionate leave,’ he whispered. ‘Your Auntie Mavis. The funeral is in the South of France.’ And although she protested, she was still smiling as she fell asleep.

  THEY WENT BY TRAIN TO the coast, and took a ferry from Dover. The sky was clear, the crossing smooth. They ate lunch in the ship’s restaurant, grilled sole with peas, potatoes scalloped into shells, and after coffee they stood on deck and watched the waves, deep green and breaking, rolling from the prow. Gulls flew out to meet them as they neared Calais, sleek and fat, circling for scraps. From Calais they took another train, first class, the curtains drawn against the sun. Felix read the papers in English and French, and Rosaleen took out her notebook. Hovercraft travel. Will it catch on? She looked out of the window as they trundled south and did her best to see into the future.

  * * *

  Rosaleen had bought the bikini with her first month’s wages, and if she didn’t wear it now she might never have the courage. While Felix shaved she lifted it from its tissue wrapping, her fingers trembling with the need for speed as she slipped the ruched bra over her arms and fastened the catch against her back. Felix was singing in the bathroom, one side of his face gleaming, the bright lather deepening his tan. Her own skin was pale, flecked with freckles, and before he could finish and catch sight of her surprise, she’d slipped on her dress and buttoned it up.

  Later, when there was a chance for a swim, and Felix had settled himself on a restaurant’s terrace, she raced across the coast road, her towel in a string bag. The beach was narrow and deserted, and self-conscious she flung off her dress, not looking round as she waded out in her flimsy covering of cotton. It was as good as swimming naked – and she thought of Angela and how at the end of the school year they’d swum out from the beach below Loreto, pulling off their rubbery black costumes under cover of the water, laughing as the sea’s silk fingers slunk around their waists. ‘I dare you to get out like this,’ she’d shouted to her sister, the thought of the nuns watching from the hill above making her laugh more, and Angela had splashed, horrified, and refrained from returning the dare.

  Rosaleen floated on her back and looked up at the sky. Light skipped across the water as she stretched. If she was truly one of God’s creatures then how many sins had she accrued in the last two blissful weeks and, she wondered idly, would her life be long enough for penance? She flipped over and swam down under the water, following shoals of tiny glinting fish, tracing the dappled light across the seabed. It was then she remembered she had intended keeping her head dry. Surely Felix didn’t want to dine with a girl dripping water into her plate? She burst up and glanced towards the terrace but the sun was in her eyes and there was nothing to be seen. Back on the beach she dried herself and, flushing to find she’d forgotten any underwear, pulled on her dress. Our Father, who art in heaven . . . The prayer unspooled as her nipples hardened and cool air swished between her legs.

  Felix greeted her, amused. ‘It was an itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka-dot bikini,’ he crooned in his pleasing, oddly tuneless voice, ‘that she wore for the first time today,’ and she laughed as she remembered that despite his many years – in the New Year he’d be turning forty! – he was the most ageless person she knew.

  ‘Eat.’ He pointed to the lobster they had chosen, bound and menacing in its tank, now bright and broken open. Her stomach growled, obedient, and she pulled out a chair. ‘Marvellous.’ He looked at her, his eyes glittery with sun, and she lifted his fingers and kissed them one by one.

  All afternoon they wandered through Marseilles, down to the port where fishermen were finishing their day, while in the cafés opposite sailors were beginning theirs. They walked through narrow streets and peered into shops, and every time they crossed a road, Felix took her arm and, holding it tight, whisked her wildly over. ‘Is there anything you long for?’ he asked as they stared at a collection of glass figurines, but apart from underwear, which she had at the hotel, there was nothing in the world she needed.

  They stopped at a patisserie and bought a bag of vanilla-scented cakes, eating them straight from the paper, savouring the fluted yellow sponge. Felix told her they made him think of the Sandkuchen he’d eaten in Berlin before the war. ‘My oma would make it in a loaf tin and bring it to the house still warm.’ Rosaleen slipped a last cake into her mouth and knew that if she were ever to eat one again, she’d be reminded of this day.

  The need for tea drove them back to their hotel, but the hotel didn’t understand about tea, and so Felix ordered champagne. It arrived as Rosaleen was pulling off her dress, and naked she leapt into bed and lay still under the covers while Felix ushered the boy in. ‘Oui, c’est tout.’ She heard the rattle of coins, and with a ‘Merci beaucoup, Monsieur,’ and some happy steps, the door was closed behind him. ‘It is imperative this champagne be drunk immediately.’ He poured two glasses and, kicking off his shoes, slid in beside her and, as the bubbles rose, enfolded her salt body in his arms.

  Kate

  WHERE IS THAT FUCKING RIVER? TOMORROW I HAVE WORK, AND I press a hand between my legs, comforting, hard, but I know I’ll sleep more deeply if I can quieten my tho
ughts some other way. Don’t wake me. I’ve left a note on the stairs, and I think how, when my mother was here, Matt was his true charming self. ‘Just a quick rehearsal,’ he’d said, not long after she had gone.

  I glance at the clock. It’s almost one.

  My river, when I find it, is flowing over boulders. I cling fast, but they are slippery and green, and I’m rushed through reeds and minnows, catching at an overhanging branch, watching as it curves around a headland and is gone. Shipwrecked, I turn to my tree and start to climb, and soon I’m on a ladder, balancing against the dirty whitewashed wall of the yard where my people go to smoke. We’d plant a real tree, I tell them, if the yard hadn’t been paved over, and Beck, who runs the centre’s café, providing soup and flapjacks, has abandoned his kitchen to hold the ladder steady. ‘You OK there?’ he calls, and I look into his upturned face, and I see his eyes are beechnut brown.

  ‘I am.’ I’m blushing, even in my sleep. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Muuum.’ Like a miracle it’s morning. I flick off the optimistic alarm and stretch out a foot to Matt. There’s nothing but the smooth cool width of sheet.

  ‘Muuuuum!’ Freya is as pleased to see me as if we’ve been apart for years. She winds her arms around my neck and presses her mouth against my cheek as we stagger downstairs. ‘Shhh,’ I whisper as I duck into the sitting room, but Matt isn’t there either.

  Iced with worry, I leaf through my address book. Might he have stayed at Andy’s? I listen to the ringing of the phone, and when there is no answer I try Ian. ‘No,’ comes the gravelly reply and I apologise. It’s six a.m.

  Unsure what else to do, I run a bath.

  ‘Mum.’ Freya has a bubble beard. ‘I’ll love you even when you’re dead.’