Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  She dived into the pool, and swam back and forth, back and forth, just the way she used to swim with Billy, until she felt exhausted, and the fear went away. When they both climbed out of the water at last, she wrapped Cat in a towel, and then held her very tight. She said to herself, silently, over and over again: Billy’s baby. Billy’s baby, and Cat said with a little giggle, “Don’t do that. Don’t do it. I can’t breathe!”

  When they returned to the house, finally, Lewis was waiting for them. Cat looked from his tight set face to her mother, then, without another word, she slipped past Lewis, and ran inside. He watched her go.

  “Thad just called,” he said in a cold voice. “He wants you to see Ellis on Wednesday afternoon. He’s done the final cut. He says it’ll take at least three hours.”

  “Oh. I see.” Hélène hesitated. “Well—I don’t have to go then. I can easily change it. If you had any plans…”

  “Plans?”

  “Plans for us, I meant.” She paused. “I’ve been home three weeks, Lewis, and it’s just that I’ve hardly seen you…”

  “Well, you won’t be seeing me on Wednesday. I’m tied up the whole day. So if you want to spend the afternoon with Thad, by all means do so.”

  He began to walk away, and Hélène, suddenly unable to stop herself, turned after him.

  “Lewis—where are you going?”

  Lewis turned and gave her a cold look.

  “Out,” he said. “Isn’t that obvious?”

  Lewis had developed a new habit, a new technique, since Hélène had returned home. When he discovered how much he hated to lie, how uneasy it made him, so that he lurched constantly between the conviction that he must give Stephani up, and the equally firm conviction that it was impossible, he found a cure. He kept the cure in a small bottle in the glove compartment of the Porsche: a new brand of small red uppers. At first he had taken only one or two. Now, sometimes, he took more than that. He would take the first batch when he left home and was on the way to Stephani’s. He would take the second batch when he left her to return to Hélène.

  Unlike alcohol, which often made him feel depressed, and maudlin, and sometimes aggressive, the pills had the effect of calming all nerves. They gave him, until they started to wear off, an intoxicating belief in himself. With the pills inside him, Lewis knew that no matter what he did, nothing could go wrong.

  When he first got up in the morning, when he was at his lowest ebb, he would feel all the old uncertainties. Then, sometimes, he would long to walk down the corridor to Hélène’s room, and go in, and tell her why he had been behaving the way he had. Sometimes then, it seemed to him quite possible. He would tell her about Stephani. He would make her understand that he needed Stephani because she, Hélène, made him so unhappy. And that if only she could stop making him unhappy, he would need Stephani no more.

  Sometimes, then, he would have a drink—just one drink—to give him courage. But the minute he had that, everything changed again. Then he would be glad he had not gone to Hélène. All his old grievances and anxieties would come flooding back into his mind. He would go downstairs, and when he saw Hélène, he would talk to her in the new way, the way he had discovered since the affair with Stephani began. He would be cold, and unapproachable. And he would feel within himself a new steely malice: it hurt Hélène when he behaved in this way. He could see how hard she was trying, and the more she tried, the colder and more unavailable he would become: he saw the pain it caused, and one part of his mind rejoiced, and the other part watched with a kind of helpless dismay.

  Then, before the dismay could get too strong, he would leave, climb into the Porsche, and swallow the little red pills. Once they took effect, he knew he was safe in a world of unshakable certainties, which would last most of the day.

  On the Wednesday when Hélène was to meet Thad, and see the completed version of Ellis for the first time, Lewis rose very early. He showered and dressed, went downstairs, made himself a large quantity of black coffee, shut himself in his study, and locked the door. He took out the manuscript of Endless Moments, now in its fourth draft, and stared at it. It was a mess. He had rewritten it so many times that he could now no longer remember whether a particular scene was still in or had been cut. He had been looking at this draft only the previous day, and yet he found he could not remember it. The scene between the husband and the lover: that had worked once, but had he retained it? And which version of the scene worked best, the first, or the second, or the third?

  Lewis stared at the pages in bewilderment. He poured some more black coffee; he thought of having a drink, and resisted. Why could he not be more like Thad? he thought with a sudden despair—Thad, who never had doubts or uncertainties or second thoughts, but saw everything plain. Thad, of course, led a life that was entirely uncluttered by emotions. He lived for his work, and in his work: he did not feel love, or jealousy, or fear, or inadequacy; Lewis had never even seen him angry, he realized, and that thought made him feel slightly better. He took another swallow of coffee; his spirits began to revive. After all, Thad the movie director might be a success, but Thad the man was a poor thing.

  Two weeks before, unknown to Hélène, Lewis had been to see Thad. The memory of that meeting still smarted. He had been to Thad to humble himself, to ask if Thad would take him back, and let him produce again.

  “You see, Thad,” he had said awkwardly, “the writing isn’t working out quite the way I hoped. I’m not giving up—I don’t want you to think that. But I don’t need to be doing it full-time. I could go back to producing and still write. I don’t know what your plans are after Ellis, but we always worked so well together, and I thought…”

  Thad had been humming, and chewing on his beard. When Lewis’s voice died away, he said, “No, Lewis. I don’t want you back producing. It inhibits Hélène. It won’t work anymore.”

  Lewis stared at him. “Hélène said that?”

  Thad made puffing noises. “Not in so many words. But it’s what she feels. You crowd her, Lewis. Hélène needs to feel free.” He paused. “If it was up to me…but it isn’t. I have to think of her.”

  Lewis had hated him at that moment; he had hated Hélène even more. He hated them both now. With an angry gesture, he stood up, pushed the pages on his desk to one side, and poured himself a drink. Hélène was blocking him: he had always suspected that, and now he knew it—and Thad, who was supposed to be his friend, was letting her do it.

  And yet—was that the case? Thad, after all, could have been lying. Lewis stood very still. The whiskey had hit his stomach, and he could feel its warmth, coursing. He looked out the window at the garden, in which birds sang, and the sun shone. He thought of Hélène, and for a moment felt his mind washed clean. He loved her. He trusted her. She was the fixed point in his life. Just for an instant, he felt it again, the sensation he had first had in London, that quicksilver sense of purpose, that certainty he could make it to the goal line.

  He would go and talk to her. He would go and talk to her now. He made it as far as the door, and immediately the doubts started. He heard footsteps, outside; he heard Cat, running, and then her voice call.

  If it had not been for Cat, he thought, if he did not have to live, day in, day out, with the physical reminder of Hélène’s past—then he might have been all right. He turned and watched Cat. She ran across the lawn and through the trees. Who fathered her? Where? How? Did he believe the fragments of explanation Hélène had given him, or did he not? That was the heart of it, that was the heart of it, he thought; if he only knew that, he would know everything. He crossed to his desk, picked up the sheets of manuscript, and hurled them across the room. He ran out into the hall, and stood at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Where are you, Hélène? Where are you?”

  He heard himself shout the words. They seemed very loud. They reverberated in his head, they reverberated through the house. Then, the next moment, he realized he had not shouted them at all. The cry had been tremendously loud, an
d yet silent. A cry from the heart, a cry in the mind—to which, of course, there was no answer.

  He slammed out of the house, ran around to where the Porsche was parked, and leaped in. He gunned the engine, and heard its roar; he switched on the radio and turned the volume all the way up, so the beat of the drums and the whine of the electric guitars drowned out the silence, and the emptiness. He fumbled with the glove compartment, got it open, and shook the little red pills into the palm of his hand. They were difficult to swallow, they stuck in his throat. Lewis gulped them back, released the brake, and accelerated down the drive.

  The gates swung back; the road outside was empty; the man was not there, and Lewis felt a surge of relief. The man frightened him; he was no longer always sure whether he really saw him, or whether he imagined him. But—he was not there—that was a good omen.

  Up onto the freeway; he gave the Porsche its head. He was early, Stephani would not be expecting him this soon, but it didn’t matter, she would be there just the same, and when he saw her, he would feel all right…

  He ran the Porsche onto the sidewalk outside her house, slammed the door, dashed up the stairs. He had a key now, and he let himself in, calling her name. The living room was empty; he could see through into the bedroom, and that was empty, too, though the sheets were thrown back, and the bed unmade…She wasn’t out. She couldn’t be out. If she was out now, Lewis knew he’d go crazy. He looked at his watch. It was ten A.M.; she had to be there; she had to…He shouted her name, very loud.

  And the bathroom door opened. Stephani came out. She came out shyly, slowly, her eyes fixed anxiously on his face. Lewis stared at her. There was a silence, and it seemed to him to go on forever.

  Stephani was fully dressed, and fully made up. She was wearing a plain, well-cut black linen dress, which was not at all tight. She was wearing fine pale stockings on her legs, and on her feet were low-heeled, expensive black kid shoes, with small flat gros-grain bows on the fronts. She was wearing pearls around her throat—Stephani never wore pearls. The makeup was discreet, even minimal. No false eyelashes; no pink gloss on her lips. And she had done something to her hair—what had she done to her hair? Lewis stared at it. It was no longer a riot of platinum-blond waves, it was darker, more subdued, a pale gold. It was brushed back from her face, and fastened at the nape of the neck with a wide black ribbon, a ribbon of the same kind, precisely the same kind, that Hélène sometimes wore.

  Lewis could not speak; he just went on staring. It was the pills, he thought confusedly; it must be the pills—he must have taken too many.

  Stephani was looking at him, half anxiously, half proudly. Lewis saw that her hands were trembling a little. She suddenly gave a little nervous laugh:

  “You caught me, Lewis, I wasn’t expecting you. I…” She hesitated. “Do you see now? Do you see?” Her voice shook, it became pleading. “Tell me I’m like her, Lewis. Tell me…”

  “Jesus Christ. Oh, Jesus Christ…”

  He still stared at her; he could not move; it was Hélène, and it was not Hélène; he felt as if the chemistry of his mind was altering; images and memories tangled and untangled; he was speeding forward very fast, and then backward very fast. He rubbed his hands across his eyes. He looked again, and she was still there, Hélène and not Hélène, his wife and not his wife. This wife, this Hélène, had fuller breasts, and more rounded hips; this wife, this Hélène, was looking at him in a new way, a way that made his body leap and strain in response. She was looking at him as if she wanted him—not anyone else, no figure from some past—but him, now, her husband. He could have this woman, this wife, this Hélène; have her, hold her.

  He took one step forward, and he was glad she didn’t speak again, because the voice, of course, was wrong. She didn’t speak, because she knew she did not need to. Instead, this woman, this wife, just lifted her arms to him.

  His mind fractured; he thought—she heard me call, and she answered, here she is. He fell to his knees in front of her, and buried his face between her thighs. He could smell that she wanted him. He put his hands up between her legs, and she was wearing no lacy underwear, which was wrong, but that did not matter, because she was wet and sticky the way he always wanted her to be, and she hardly ever was. He lifted his face and looked up into her eyes, waiting to see the lie and the pity. But there was no pity, and no lie: the eyes were the wrong blue, and not the right shape, but it didn’t matter, the likeness was enough, it was enough…

  “Hélène…” he said. She gave a little cry.

  He pulled her down beside him. Her hands were reaching for him; he could feel her urgency; he could feel his own. Such touching.

  “Quickly,” Hélène said, in a new breathy voice, a voice he had never heard her use before, a voice that urged him on because he could hear the need in it. “Quickly. Oh, Lewis. Quickly…”

  The last close-up was of her face. Then the camera began to pull back, very slowly. The figure of a girl—her figure; the house behind her; the street in which she stood…Back and up in one long glorious and continuous movement: other streets, intersecting with the first; the network of a great city seen from the sky; its long avenues, glittering; its towers; then, slowly, still very slowly, the outline of the island on which the city had been built; a bay of water; ships; a statue with an upraised arm. The camera was moving away, faster now, and the city and the bay grew smaller and smaller. In the distance, just visible, was an outcrop of islands. One of them was Ellis Island. The music began, and the credits started to roll.

  Hélène sat in silence. Thad sat in silence. After what seemed a very long time, the screen went dark. The lights in the screening room came up.

  Thad glanced at her. Hélène turned her face away. It had been so good; and yet she felt uneasy.

  Thad shifted a little in his seat. He crossed and uncrossed his feet. Finally he said, “Come back with me, and have some tea.”

  “It’s the best thing you’ve ever done. The best thing I’ve ever done. I knew it would be. Nothing can stop us now.”

  Thad sounded quite matter-of-fact. He had not asked her opinion, and Hélène doubted that he would. Her opinion did not interest him; for Thad there was only one arbiter, and it was himself. He was at the far end of his huge studio room now, filling his electric kettle, fiddling around with mugs and with tea bags: the protracted ritual of Thad’s making tea.

  Hélène looked at him, and then at the room in which she sat. It was on the first floor of this enormous house, in which Thad had lived for the past four years. It looked, it always looked, as if he had moved in yesterday. There was virtually no furniture, no carpets, and the long rank of windows that led out onto the balcony had no draperies. One wall was stacked with packing cases, most of them still sealed. On top of them was a pile of debris: old magazines, yellowing newspapers, bundles of scripts, some books, and a small mountain of dirty aluminum takeout dishes; it was higher than it had been; each time she came here it seemed to Hélène that it grew.

  On the opposite wall was a long shelf, from which wires and cables looped. It bent under the weight of expensive and elaborate hi-fi equipment—players, tuners, tall stereo speakers, a mass of gleaming materiel. On this stereo, Thad claimed to listen to Wagner; he said he had a passion for Wagner. There were no records of any kind visible, however; Hélène had never heard the stereo switched on.

  Behind her there was a cavernous fireplace, in which no fire was ever lit. And in front of the fireplace were two low backless seats covered in dirty graying fabric; it was on one of these that she sat, the only alternative being the floor. She folded her hands on her lap and waited. Thad was sniffing at cartons of milk; the kettle took a century to boil.

  There were only two other objects in the room of any significance, and they were both television sets. As always, they were both on, tuned to different stations, the sound turned all the way down. Hélène stared at them, first one, then the other.

  On the first, a quiz show was coming to its climax. A ver
y fat woman, dressed as a chicken, had just won a car. The car was a Chevrolet; it was on a stand, and tied up like a present with huge red bows. It revolved and revolved: when the chicken-woman saw it, she went wild.

  The second set was tuned to NBC. It was the evening news. President Johnson was making a speech, his skin an odd orange, because the color adjustment was wrong. After a while Johnson disappeared, and there was footage from Vietnam. Guns fired. On the other side of the Pacific, an orange village burned.

  Hélène looked at the sets for a while. Then, quietly, she rose, and switched them off. She sat down again.

  She had been good in Ellis. Watching the film, with a dispassion she had never felt before, she had been able to see exactly how she had done it. This technique; that technique; each tiny component part—she could identify each one, she could see precisely how they linked together; she could see why she had selected them, and how she had deployed them. They made absolute sense to her, and no sense at all. It was easy to be Lise, so easy that it had seemed to her, as she watched, quite without point. Lise was a figment; she lived on celluloid. She would be there forever, living her own eternal independent life, and that frightened Hélène. As she sat there in the screening room she had thought, suddenly: what about my life?

  She had only one, and unlike Lise’s life, it was finite. It grew shorter with each second that passed.

  Thad came across with the tea. He said apologetically, “I’m afraid there’s no milk.”

  Then he sat down opposite her, on the other backless seat, and beamed at her through the steam from his tea. Hélène looked at him: she had not seen Thad now for months, not seen him, not spoken to him. She had changed in that time, and for a moment she felt absolutely sure that Thad must see that. Hélène felt that her ambivalence, her dissatisfaction, must be naked in her face: but Thad seemed not to see it—or, if he noted it, he let it pass without remark. He behaved precisely as he always did; he ignored the gap of time; he continued where they had left off, as if he had last seen her not months before, but merely minutes.