by Jane Robins
“So why didn’t she come today, why is it just us?”
“I wanted to mend fences . . . and to spend time getting to know you better.”
“Why? I’m very ordinary.” Thinking, I have to stop saying that!
“Ha! You’re wrong—you’re an unusually perceptive person. You’re bright and you’re funny. Those wry observations of yours—you have perfect timing . . .”
“Why all this flattery, Felix?” I’m too stressed, too nauseated, to pretend that I’m charmed.
He brushes an invisible crumb off the table. “It’s not about flattery. I’m trying to tell you that I like you, Callie. And I want to convince you that I’m right for Tilda. I’m in love with your sister, and I’m good for her. . . . It pains me that you don’t see me that way.”
His voice is practically a whisper, an articulated hush, and I lean in, not wanting to miss anything.
“Are you always like this with your girlfriends?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, taking a close interest in every aspect of her life. What dress she wears, what perfume she uses, who she sees, how she manages her work, how she decorates her flat . . .” I use a soft aspirated voice, mirroring him, and I’m reminded of the quiet hissing that swans do, before they get angry.
He leans back in his chair, inhaling as though he’s stifling a yawn, then, looking into my eyes, he comes forward and places his hand on mine. It takes all my willpower not to pull away.
“You’re wrong to be suspicious of me, you know. Those character traits of mine that you don’t like, they’re innocent— Don’t smirk like that. It’s not sinister to care about organization and order. . . . In a clean, uncluttered room you can think; you can be your true self. It’s the same with worries and anxieties, keep them under wraps, and you’re free to excel in activity that matters, whether it’s the strategic management of capital, or something creative, like acting.”
He pulls his hand away, and I’m relieved, at the same time registering some change in him. Something I can’t quite place.
“Really?” It comes out hypercritical. “You like it that Tilda’s an actress?”
In a humoring voice, like he’s trying to calm a dog, he says, “Yes, Callie, I do. She’s a very talented actress, and I’m proud of her. And the more clarity and structure in her home life, the better she’ll be able to focus on her acting.”
“Huh! I suppose you think that if I was more organized and structured at home I wouldn’t be working in a bookshop . . . I’d be a brain surgeon or a high court judge or something.”
Still the pacifying voice: “I’m saying that you might be doing something a little more exciting than working in a bookshop—yes.”
I want to tell him that he doesn’t fool me. At the same time, I don’t want to interrupt his flow, so I offer: “Does Tilda agree?”
“We both know that your sister tends towards chaos and drama. You could say that we’re opposites—but we complement each other. I help her take control of her life, and she prevents me from being obsessive about it. She’s good for me.”
I note a soft tone when he talks about Tilda, and it shakes me up because it sounds genuinely caring and affectionate. I’d become so focused on his violent sex with my sister and his control over her, that I’d forgotten he might actually love her.
Elbow on the table, I lean my head on my hand. “Okay, so let’s assume that I’ll let you sort me out . . . What do you suggest—as a first move—to resign from the bookshop maybe?”
“No, resigning is never a first step. Much better to sit yourself down with a blank sheet of paper and start writing down all the elements of life that are important to you, and those you could easily drop. That way you can begin to work out the journey you want to go on . . .”
“Going forward?” I say, and we both laugh.
A waiter tops up the glasses and asks whether everything is all right. Felix says, “Excellent, thank you.” And I nod my assent.
I’m sounding almost carefree now. “Working with nice people is high up . . . and not being stressed. I couldn’t do your job—all that gambling with other people’s money. But you’re right about the bookshop, I guess, because, although I love Daphne, and books, I don’t want to be there forever. I should try and figure out what to do next.” As I speak, I’m thinking about being in the garden with Wilf, how the time flew because I was so into my digging and enjoying being outside.
“I like communing with nature.” I grin with embarrassment.
“Where did that come from?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . Felix, can I ask you something?” I need to get back to the questions I had planned to ask. Not to fall into the trap of liking him.
“Of course.”
“Do you have any family? I mean, you don’t seem to have any roots, or friends, or old flames, or anything. It’s always just you and Tilda.”
“You’re a funny one. . . . Of course I have family—a mother called Alana who writes children’s books, and a dad, Erik, who lectures in economics in Boston. They’re still together, so no terrible breakup traumas to report . . . and I call home every week, and always end the call with a love you . . . How about that? That’s not how you think of me, Callie, is it? The good son.”
“What about siblings?”
“I have a brother, Lucas. We don’t always get along—we’re very different and somewhat competitive. While I trade strange, ungraspable financial instruments, he works in bricks and mortar, solid materials . . .”
Somehow I know that Lucas isn’t a real estate agent, like Wilf.
“Lucas is a talented architect,” he says drily. “He lives and works in France, near Nice, and I took Tilda to meet him when we were on holiday there. . . . He has an ex-girlfriend who lives nearby—Sophie. And Lucas is father to their baby. Lily.”
“She didn’t tell me that—Uncle Felix . . . it’s hard to imagine. What about your old girlfriends? Where are they—here, or in America?”
“I knew I was going to get a grilling.” He wipes his lips with a napkin. “And it’s fine. I realize that you have this obsessive thing going on, looking out for Tilda. And I know that I don’t usually talk about myself. I’m a private person. Isn’t that the term for those of us who find it difficult to share every little thing?”
“I’m a private person too.”
He looks directly into my eyes for a moment. “So we have that in common. And yes, Callie, I do have an important ex-girlfriend. She’s American like me, but lives in this country and her name’s Francesca. We lived together for three years, and we broke up because she wanted to be married and I didn’t want to marry her. . . .”
At this point I look down at his hands. It’s instinctive. I had half noticed something before, but only now is it striking me properly.
“Shit, Felix! Why’s that ring on your wedding finger? Do you always do that, or has something happened?”
“I wondered when you’d notice.” There’s an element of nervousness in his voice. “When we were in Martinique I asked Tilda to marry me, and we had a little ceremony on a beach. Nothing that’s binding in law. But that will happen . . . pretty soon.”
For a second I’m totally numb.
“Oh God . . . I knew things were serious—but this . . . I didn’t expect it.”
What I want to say is This is awful.
“Why didn’t Tilda tell me?”
He smiles coyly, pleased to be imparting his news. “We’ve been enjoying our secret. Not going public. But I thought that, since you want to know every little thing about me, I’d better tell you. It seems fair, in the circumstances. Now, sit up straight and breathe—have a sip of your wine.”
I realize now that this is the purpose of the dinner—that Tilda told Felix to bond with me, to become my friend, because he’s about to be my brother-in-law. I feel like imploding, right there in the restaurant, crying and wailing and making a scene. But I go against my instincts, and do as Felix says, I sit up st
raight, draw my shoulders back and I raise my glass:
“To you and Tilda.”
“And to you, Callie.” He says it like he means it.
I drink my wine down, my head swimming from the champagne, and I feel inclined to get totally wasted. Felix is drinking heavily too, and as the evening goes on, the alcohol has a palliative effect on me and a loosening effect on him, making him increasingly revealing. He tells me about Francesca, who’s a journalist apparently and a workaholic, and she was critical of Felix’s behavior and didn’t appreciate him like Tilda does. I open up too, telling Felix about Wilf’s gardening ambitions, and the way he comes into the bookshop all the time and how Daphne is like a hawk, watching everything that goes on.
We leave the restaurant after midnight, Felix’s arm around me, and he gives me his usual hug as he puts me in a taxi, and then a tiny kiss on my cheek. He insists on paying my fare and sends me off into the night. I slouch on the seat, utterly confused, traumatized. In the dossier I’ve noted that Felix fits the traditional Controlling Men loner profile. Not the sort who sits alone in his bedroom contributing to internet conspiracy theories, or researching terrorism. More the type who has no real, meaningful friendships but does have an easy charm, who plays people, and I wonder whether I’ve just succumbed to his power to manipulate. At the same time, I can’t help thinking there’s a tiny chance that I’m wrong about everything. Felix had seemed so nice this evening. Genuinely. And I have to admit that Tilda is a drama queen—she always has been. Maybe she hyped up the violent side of her relationship with Felix to fit her own glamorous, romantic self-image—I love danger. I love risk. “To be opened in the event of my death.” Actually, it’s more than possible. All our lives she’s been prone to exaggeration.
As the cab climbs the hill towards Willesden Green I think maybe I could like Felix again, and it even seems possible that he could be an interesting, entertaining member of our family.
• • •
At home, I go online and say to Belle:
Help me! I think I might be mad. I just spent my evening with Felix and it made me think I might be mistaken, I might have read too much into his behavior.
What do you mean???
He was nice to me . . . and interested. Maybe I’m wrong about him. Maybe I’ve been carried away, spending too much time on Controlling Men. I’ve become paranoid.
Oh Calliegirl . . . don’t be nieve. Remember he’s a clever operater. And don’t forget the important indicators—the violence, and the isolation.
Belle, I realize what you’re saying. But I’m genuinely wondering whether I’ve got everything out of proportion. I’m going to stay off here for a while, to let things settle. And I don’t want to be part of this plan that Scarlet is dreaming up.
Callie! Don’t leave!!!! I will miss you 2 much. Xxxxxx
I have to, Belle. I need to sort myself out.
Can’t talk about this right now coz L and the children r here!!! They came yesterday and I’m sooo busy. But please don’t go. I’ll email u when I get a chance, u HAVE to stay in touch. We r proper friends now!
I sign off with some kisses and a good luck message—but resolve to give myself a break.
The next morning I wake up with a bad head and wander round the flat searching for Tylenol. Then I make a cup of tea and phone Mum in Wales—she does her painting full-time now. I think the cancer she had years ago made her want to devote her life purely to her art.
“Mum,” I say. “Have you heard from Tilda recently?”
“Not for a couple of weeks, darling, why?”
I don’t want to tell her about the marriage plans, in case Tilda wants to do it herself, or have Felix do it. So I say, “Oh, no reason. I was just wondering what you think about Felix. It seems to be pretty serious between the two of them.”
There’s a long pause, and she says, “I’m not so sure. He’s a little strange. They came to stay a couple of weeks ago—I’m sure Tilda told you—and he kept tidying up the cottage. And he washed the kitchen floor. Maybe it’s an American thing?”
“I don’t think so. Do you think Tilda’s happy with him?”
“Who knows? There’s something in the air between them; I can feel it. Tilda didn’t seem to be quite herself.”
“She’s in love.”
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
I leave it there, and we chat about Wales and Mum’s walking group, and their drunken nights down at the pub after a long day’s rambling in the Brecon Beacons. And how she had a little exhibition of her art in a village hall, and the big cheese in the fancy house—a “proper chap,” who wears maroon corduroy trousers—bought one of her red-and-orange abstract landscapes for £150. “I actually think he might have been flirting with me!” she says. Then she tells me that she’s thinking of getting a tattoo, a tiny tulip near her ankle, a symbol of life. Celebrating the years she’s had free from cancer. “Can’t you celebrate some other way?” I say disdainfully.
Afterwards, I sit at my table under the window and switch on the computer. While I’m waiting for it to boot up, I glance at my phone and see that I have a text from Tilda:
What the fuck is this crap in the Mail??? How could you? I despair.
I go to the Daily Mail’s website and read the top headline in the sidebar: “Tilda Farrow in Love.” The article is filled with insinuation—Tilda Farrow apparently is so in love with her new man, wealthy banker Felix Nordberg, that she has given up acting to devote herself to the relationship. Felix is well-known for his “meticulous attention to detail, planning and strategy.”
I feel weak, my thoughts going immediately to Wilf. How could I have been so stupid, so careless? Or, to see it another way, so trusting of someone I hardly know? I pace the room, wondering what to do, and then I phone Tilda again. She answers this time, saying, “You’re the only person, Callie. The only one that this shit could have come from. Who the fuck have you been speaking to?” I don’t want to tell her about Wilf, so I say, “I’m so sorry, really I am. I don’t know how it happened. I might have talked to a couple of people . . . maybe Daphne, maybe someone else.” I’m braced, ready for her to go ballistic at me and make threats, but instead she pauses, then changes her attitude completely, sounding upbeat and giggly. “Oh well, fuck it. Let’s ignore the bastards. What about my news? Isn’t it totally wonderful! Aren’t I the luckiest woman in the world?”
I’ve decided to go along with it all. To give Felix the benefit of the doubt, and in the most lively voice I can manage, I say, “Congratulations! The future Mrs. Nordberg . . . It sounds so grand! Can I be a bridesmaid?”
“No bridesmaids. None of that shit. Just a very small, simple, elegant wedding. It’s so exciting!”
We talk about wedding venues and guest lists and other fripperies, then she’s called away by Felix to “enjoy my breakfast champagne!” and I imagine her skipping flirtatiously across the room to the kitchen area, then tiptoeing to kiss her fiancé’s handsome face.
I sit down again at the table, weary from my attempt to be supportive and joyful, and I see on my phone that there’s an email from Scarlet. So I turn to my laptop and read and as I do so, all my thoughts of Tilda and Felix’s wedding and of Wilf’s betrayal are obliterated. I reread the message, and Scarlet’s words sink slowly into my brain, and they are utterly devastating.
19
Belle.
Her real name is Bea Santos. I know that now. Her mother, Patricia, came from the Philippines in the 1980s to work in the NHS as a nurse, and Belle carried on the family tradition. I know also that she could tap-dance and sing, and liked to perform to “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’ ” while wearing special white patent leather boots. I’ve learned that Belle was a proficient seamstress, excellent at blanket stitch and buttonholes and zips (she made her green dress). The other things I know are rather random—her fear of moths and of sticky labels; her poor exam record; her love for her childhood pet, a bulldog named Ed. I realize now that the sweet nerv
ousness that I noticed in her was loved by her workmates and friends, and that a drawer in her bedroom contained more than a hundred thank-you cards and letters from her patients and their families.
I learn all this on a vile, rainy day when I travel again to York—this time for her funeral. That email from Scarlet had plunged me into a bleak new world, leading me to a news story on the BBC website. A man had broken into a flat in the Dringhouses area of York and had stabbed a woman named Tricia Mayhew along with her friend Bea Santos. Two small children were present but not physically harmed, a girl aged seven and a boy aged four. Tricia had survived, and was well enough to attend Belle’s funeral, and she sat at the back of the church, her face a mask, deadened by shock. According to the papers, her husband, Joe, was in police custody.
The service is a Catholic mass, with Latin and incense, and a choir sings unfamiliar hymns. Mainly I look down at my hands, but occasionally I glance up, and see the coffin, and I think, Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Two people speak about Belle: one, her boss at work, Kevin Attwood, and the other, someone who knew her from the church, a woman named Holly Gracie, who says she had known Bea since she was a little girl, and I’m aware that Bea’s mother is sitting in the front pew, protected by large men on either side. Patricia Santos is a tiny figure, perfectly still, wearing a black veil over her black hair, not standing up when everyone else does, or kneeling, just sitting there. And she doesn’t take Communion.
At the end, the congregation shuffles into a neighboring church hall, a modern building with a laminate floor and exposed bricks on the inside walls. I offer to help hand out sandwiches and refreshments, thinking that I’ll be able to overhear conversations and learn more about Belle. I move from group to group, and offer mini quiches to a short, stocky young man, who manages to smile sadly. I ask him, “How do you know Bea?” and he tells me that she had been his girlfriend in the years after they left St. Xavier’s School. His name is Charlie and he’s a paramedic, and he seems perfect for Belle, since his voice is unmistakably kind.