“I’m sure,” Tristan replies. “Is there any more of this?” he asks, tapping the neck of the empty bottle. “I haven’t had a drink all night because I was driving. I’ve had to put up with your sister sober. Can you imagine?”
Hannah makes a trip to the refrigerator and returns with a fresh bottle of rosé and a corkscrew.
“So are you angry with me too?” Tristan asks as he opens the bottle with professional flourish.
Hannah sighs and perches on the edge of a chair. “I guess not,” she says. “It’s just Jill. But even beyond the whole Aïsha getting Luke stoned affair...”
“So that is what happened then?” Tristan asks.
“Yes. But even beyond that, the fact that she then pissed off and left me nursing both children...”
“Aïsha was sick as well?”
Hannah nods. “She was worse than Luke. Jill should have stayed. It’s not right. It’s not fair.”
Tristan pours himself a glass of wine and then points the bottle vaguely at Hannah. She shrugs and pushes a nearby glass across the table. “Oh, just a drop,” she says, pulling her chair up and settling into it more permanently.
“Jill can’t cope with conflict,” Tristan says as he pours the wine. “So if you shout at her, ever, well, she’ll just run a mile. You must know that by now, right?”
Hannah frowns at him and sips her drink. Though she has obviously noticed this on many occasions, she has never heard it put into words. “You’re right,” she says. “That’s true actually.”
“She says she feels physically afraid,” Tristan says. “She feels like she’s in danger. As soon as anyone starts shouting, she has to run. It’s instinctual.”
Hannah laughs bitterly. “Well, that’s just ridiculous,” she says. “I have never hit Jill. I have never hit anyone, and she knows it.”
“She knows it’s stupid,” he says. “But it’s something to do with her childhood. When people start shouting she feels scared. She reckons your dad used to slap her.”
“He did. It’s true. He slapped both of us plenty.”
Tristan shrugs. “Well, there you go,” he says.
“But she was uncontrollable. You have no idea Tris’.”
“All the same,” Tristan says.
Hannah nods. “It was a different generation, wasn’t it. That’s what people did then.”
“But that doesn’t make it right.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“You never hit Luke, I bet.”
Hannah creases her brow as she tries to remember. “I think I slapped his legs once. He ran into the road. He was about six. And I slapped his legs. But that was more in fear than in anger. And I felt terrible afterwards.”
Tristan nods. “My dad used to take his belt off to me.”
“God.”
“But anyway. Just give her some space and she’ll come apologise. That’s what I reckon.”
Hannah runs her finger around the rim of the glass. It sings briefly but then stops, and she can’t get it to do it again. “Well, that would be a first,” she says. “Jill never apologises.”
“It’s not easy being Jill, you know,” Tristan says. “I’m not sure you really get that.”
Hannah pulls a face. “You’re right!” she says. “I don’t.”
“She’s a single parent. She’s broke. She’s lonely...”
“But that’s all her fault, Tristan.”
“Fault,” he repeats flatly.
“Well, it is. She could learn to compromise. She could learn to apologise. She could stick in a relationship. She could get a bloody job.”
Tristan shrugs. “Maybe that’s not all her fault though,” he says.
“I don’t see who else...”
“Maybe it’s not entirely her fault if she’s not very good at those things. At compromising. At relationships... We all have different skill-sets.”
Hannah rolls her eyes. “If you go down that road, then maybe it isn’t the serial killer’s fault that he’s a serial killer.”
“Well, maybe it isn’t,” Tristan says. “We’re all damaged. We’re all damaged in different ways.”
Hannah sighs deeply and takes another sip of wine. A tiny gust of air moves across the patio making her shiver. “It’s cooler tonight,” she says.
“It is. Storms tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“So says the weather forecast.”
“That’s a bit hard to believe,” Hannah says.
“It is,” Tristan agrees. “But going back to Jill, you know she’s jealous of you, right?”
“Jill? Jealous? Now that is ridiculous.”
Tristan nods exaggeratedly. “It’s true. She sees you as this perfect grown-up who has everything sorted while she’s wallowing around in the mud like an adolescent. Those were her actual words.”
“She should just stop wallowing,” Hannah says. “And she really was drunk if that’s what she told you. I’m nothing to be jealous of, and Jill knows it.”
“You have a stable relationship with someone you love. You have a great house, a job you enjoy...”
“It’s only a few hours at the school.”
“Even better,” Tristan says. “A part-time job that you enjoy.”
“But Jill could get all of that, Tristan, that’s the point,” Hannah says. “But she’s never known how to... how to forego anything so that she can reach a further goal. Do you know what I mean? She’s never known how to compromise.”
“I know,” Tristan says, now rolling a cigarette. “She has certain... limitations. We all do. But that’s not necessarily her fault. And it doesn’t mean that she isn’t jealous.”
“I suppose,” Hannah says, unconvinced.
Tristan pops the cigarette into the tobacco tin and stands. “Well, I’m shattered,” he says. “Are you coming to bed or...” He laughs. “Sorry, that sounded weird. I meant...”
“It’s OK, Tris’,” Hannah says. “I know what you meant. And no, I think I’ll sit here for a bit. It’s nice and quiet. You don’t have a cigarette for me, do you?”
Tristan turns back from the doorway. “For you?” he asks, shocked. “I’ve never seen you smoke. Ever.”
“I know,” Hannah says. “I gave up when I met Cliff. So it was a very long time ago. But I just fancy one for some reason.”
Tristan pulls his tobacco tin back out of his pocket and proffers it.
“Could you roll me one, do you think?” Hannah asks. “I never was very good at rollies.”
“There’s one in there,” Tristan says, shaking the tin at her. “It’s just a cigarette though. That is what you want, right?”
Hannah nods. “Thanks Tristan,” she says, taking the tin. “Goodnight.”
“Night.”
Hannah lights the cigarette, and though it makes her feel a little dizzy, it does exactly what she had hoped. The taste, the smell, the sensation of smoking takes her back to when she was twenty-one, to before she met Cliff, to a time when a million different life trajectories seemed possible.
And now here she is. At thirty-eight she could easily be halfway through her life. Her mother died at sixty, so she could very well be more than halfway through. What a terrifying thought.
She thinks a bit about the concept of Jill’s being jealous and figures that if you could somehow add Jill’s life to her own it would make up one complete whole instead of the two half-lives that each of them are making do with. But there’s no way to do that, is there? Choose romance and adventure and excitement and crazy sex adventures and you exclude, by definition, security, safety, comfort and calm.
Yes, she thinks, as she smokes her cigarette. Yes, you can have whichever half you want, but you can’t have both.
***
Jill, surprisingly, is up before Hannah the next morning. She finds her sitting in the cool shadow of the lounge nursing a pint of water.
“What are you doing in here?” Hannah asks, wondering at the change of routine. It is only after she has said i
t that the full horror of yesterday comes back to her. She realises that her first words should perhaps have been angrier.
“It’s a bit bright out there first thing,” Jill says.
“Ah,” Hannah says. “Hangover then?”
Jill nods.
“Good,” Hannah says. “I’m glad.”
She makes herself a mug of instant coffee – she can’t be bothered with the machine this morning – and walks back past Jill and out onto the patio. The sun, still low enough in the sky to pass beneath the eaves, is blinding but she turns her chair to face it and closes her eyes. The warmth on her eyelids feels wonderful.
“Look, I’m sorry, OK?” Jill says. Her voice, coming from the doorway behind her, makes Hannah jump.
Hannah doesn’t move. She doesn’t open her eyes. She simply shrugs.
“So you’re still angry, huh?” Jill says.
Hannah snorts in derision. “Even when you apologise you sound belligerent,” she says.
Jill doesn’t say anything for half a minute. “It’s because I’m embarrassed,” she says.
“Embarrassed,” Hannah repeats.
She hears Jill move to her left and take a seat at the table. She casts her a glare and then turns to look back out at the garden. “Aïsha was sick too,” Hannah says. “Just in case you wanted to know.”
“Aïsha? Really?”
“Yes, I had both kids vomiting while you were swanning around having fun in Cannes.”
“I didn’t have fun,” Jill says. “For what it’s worth.”
“Aw, poor Jill.”
“I was crying if you must know,” Jill says. “I was crying by the time we got to the end of the road.”
“That must have been really awful for you,” Hannah says.
“God, you’re harsh sometimes.”
“Jill, you told me to fuck off last night,” Hannah says. “So don’t talk to me about harsh.”
“Did I really?”
“Yep.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, Oh.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“No,” Hannah says. “Well, just to make sure you haven’t missed any of the other joys of yesterday, your daughter stole Tristan’s dope. She and Luke got stoned and vomited all over the shop. You went out and left me to deal with it alone. And then came back drunk and told me to fuck off. So if I sound a little harsh this morning, that’ll be why.”
“I’m sorry Hannah,” Jill says. “Really I am.”
Hannah shrugs again and throws another brief glare at her sister. “What’s new?” she says.
“So James didn’t come?” Jill asks.
The attempt at changing the subject is so transparent that Hannah just laughs.
“I still think he will,” Jill says. “If it’s meant to be.”
“Just... don’t, Jill, OK?”
“I’m sorry.”
“And stop saying you’re sorry. It isn’t any use to me. It isn’t any use to anyone.”
They sit in silence for a few more minutes before Jill says, “It is a bit hard to know what to say to you when you’re like this.”
Hannah chews the inside of her mouth before replying. “It’s not about saying anything, is it Jill?” she finally says. “It’s about being. It’s about doing.”
“Yes,” Jill says.
“What would be really lovely, for example,” Hannah continues, “would be if just for a bit, say, just to the end of the holiday, you could behave like a responsible adult instead of some chavvy, teenage lush.” She glances over at Jill who has flushed red as if she has been slapped. Hannah fully expects Jill to now stomp off, probably throwing some random insult over her shoulder as she leaves. Such is the ritual between the sisters.
Instead, Jill says, “Yes, I get that.”
It’s such a surprise that Hannah has to check Jill’s face to see if she is mocking her.
“Really,” Jill says, nodding. “I get it.”
“Well, good,” Hannah says, disarmed by the unexpected departure from their script. From the interior, she can hear the echo of doors opening and closing. “Sounds like people are stirring,” Hannah says. “I had better get this table cleared and breakfast on the go.”
Jill stands and touches Hannah’s shoulder. “I’ll do it this morning,” she says, starting already, to gather last night’s glasses from the table. “You have a break. I owe you.”
Hannah sits back and watches Jill clear the table. At the sound of cupboard doors and the opening and closing of the refrigerator drifting from the kitchen, Hannah pushes her lips out and nods thoughtfully. “That’s new,” she says quietly.
The window to the kitchen opens, and Jill leans out. “Where’s the coffee?” she asks. “I can’t find it anywhere.”
“It’s in the freezer,” Hannah says. “Tristan says it keeps better.”
“Oh of course,” Jill says.
Hannah listens to the sounds of the freezer opening and closing, then the clatter of random cupboard doors.
“And the tea?” Jill shouts.
“In the tea-caddie on the counter.”
“Oh, right. Cheers.”
Hannah rolls her eyes.
“Are we using these baguettes from yesterday, or the sliced stuff?” Jill asks.
“Not so new then,” Hannah murmurs, as she stands and heads into the kitchen.
TWENTY-NINE
After breakfast, Hannah takes to the hammock where she dozes for another hour. She has a strange dream where Cliff gets into the Jeep and drives away leaving her stranded with Tristan (who for some reason has James’ face) and Jill (who looks like their mother).
She’s awakened, shockingly, by Aïsha grabbing her arm. “Hannah!” Aïsha is shouting. “Hannah! Hannah! Hannah!”
Hannah drags herself from the dream and focusses on Aïsha’s panicked features, then, powered by a surge of adrenalin, she rolls from the hammock (her leg has gone to sleep) and then starts with difficulty to run after the girl. “What is it? What’s happened?” she calls.
As she reaches the gravel of the car park, she hears the sound of Luke’s wailing and switches from a run to a sprint.
Luke’s voice turns to a piercing scream as his mother rounds the corner. She reaches the poolside, already scanning the scene for indicators of what might have happened here. Luke’s mask is lying, shattered on the floor. A mixture of blood, water and tears are running down his face in long, pinkish streaks.
“Jesus Luke!” she says as she reaches her son and crouches down before him. “What’s happened here?”
Luke is crying almost hysterically now, so Hannah glances at Aïsha for answers. “Well?”
“It was an accident,” she says. “We were just playing.”
Hannah tips Luke’s face towards the light. He has multiple cuts around his closed eye and blood is running thick and fast around and into it and perhaps from it.
“Jesus!” Hannah exclaims. “Get Cliff! Now!”
“I got him out of the pool,” Aïsha says.
“Yes. Get Cliff.”
“I think he’s asleep,” Aïsha says, on the edge of tears herself.
“Then wake him! Quickly. Go!”
“Is he gonna be OK?” Aïsha asks.
“Go!” Hannah shrieks.
Aïsha runs off, and Hannah lifts Luke and carries him over to the garden tap, where she tips his head downwards and washes around his eye in the hope of removing any remaining broken glass.
“It hurts,” Luke wails.
“I know baby,” Hannah says, her voice trembling. “But you’re gonna be fine.”
Cliff – still in his underpants – and Tristan and Jill all arrive together in a confusing medley of “What’s happened?” and “Is he all-right?” and “Oh my god!”
“His mask smashed,” Hannah says, sidestepping the question of cause for the moment for expediency’s sake. “He’s got glass all around his eye. Maybe in it too.”
Cliff crouches down next to them and peers in
at Luke’s face. “Can you open your eye Luke?” he asks. “Can you see out of it?”
“I can’t,” Luke sobs. “It hurts.”
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Hannah says, her own eyes watering in sympathy. “I think it’s really bad.”
“I don’t know,” Cliff says. Looking between Jill and Tristan’s faces, he asks, “Do either of you know how to call an ambulance here?”
Jill shakes her head. Tristan too.
“Cliff?” Hannah says, her voice pleading.
Cliff shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “Isn’t there an international number or something?”
“Cliff. We need to do something,” Hannah says. “Maybe go get a neighbour.”
Tristan pulls out his phone. “Wait,” he says. “I’ve got this.”
“What can I do?” Cliff asks.
“I don’t know,” Hannah says. “Who are you calling Tris’?”
But Tristan is talking in French. He raises one hand to tell them to let him do whatever he is doing.
“So how did this happen Aï?” Jill asks. Aïsha is clinging to her leg looking pale.
“It was an accident,” Aïsha says. “But I helped him out of the pool. I thought he was gonna drown.”
“Just leave the hows and whys for now, Jill,” Hannah interrupts. “Please. We just need to work out what to do.”
Tristan hangs up. “The nearest hospital’s in Grasse,” he says, urgently. “It’s fifteen minutes max. I know where it is. I think it’s quicker to take him to A and E than to wait for an ambulance.”
“Really?” Hannah says.
“That’s what Jean-Jacques says,” Tristan tells her. “And he is local. He says the pompiers take ages. It’s eighteen – the phone number’s eighteen – but he says it’s best to go to the hospital.”
“OK, we’ll do that then,” Hannah says.
“I’ll get the keys,” Tristan says, sprinting off.
“Can you get his clothes, Cliff?” Hannah asks. “And a towel.”
Hannah lifts Luke – whose crying is reaching a new crescendo – and carries him to the front of the house where she meets Cliff coming the other way with a random assortment of the boy’s clothes.
Together they dry and dress him, then Cliff picks him up and they run to the Jeep.
The Half-Life Of Hannah (Hannah series Book 1) Page 14