Olivia’s Luck (2000)

by Catherine Alliot

  And then of course there was Sebastian. Initially I’d almost gone down on my knees and thanked God that I hadn’t seduced Sebastian that night. Thanked God that I hadn’t forced him, protesting, back to his towering town house, drugged his wine before dragging him by the hair up all those zillions of stone steps to his bedroom, slammed the door shut, refused to take no for an answer, cracked my whip, thrown him on the bed and given him a damn good seeing to, because look what I’d have been missing in my own back yard? Look who was waiting for me, under the stars, on my very own terrace?

  Then again, I thought, running the tap over a lettuce I’d just picked for lunch and gazing out at Johnny through the kitchen window, snoozing in a deck chair with a Panama hat over his eyes, then again, as every how-to-get-your-man manual would tell you, that probably couldn’t have been better. What – to have the errant husband sitting waiting on the matrimonial doorstep until two in the morning, wondering where the hell the abandoned wife was, and then for me to arrive back, panting and dishevelled, knickers in my handbag, very definitely post-coital, very definitely deflowered? Oh perfect, the revengeful would breathe ecstatically, perfect! But I knew better. Johnny, with his code of honour, would have been horrified. He wouldn’t have spoken to me, let alone touched me; would have brushed straight past me, stony-faced, got back in his car and roared off, because whilst it was OK for him to be promiscuous, for his wife – oh, heavens no. Hadn’t he already quizzed me – gently but searchingly – about the possibility of my having seen some action these past few months? Eyes trawling my face for lies?

  Suddenly I flung down the lettuce and threw open the window in rage.

  “Double standards!” I shrieked. “DOUBLE FUCKING STANDARDS!”

  Johnny awoke from his deck chair with a jolt and swung round, astonished, his Panama dropping on to the grass. In the bathroom above, Mac and the boys laid down their tools. It wasn’t the first time they’d halted their hammering to listen to the ‘domestic’ below. By the time Johnny had run in and reached me in the kitchen I was hanging on to the sink, sobbing uncontrollably into the lettuce water. As he rushed up I seized the wet lettuce and slapped it in his face, hitting him again and again with it. He stood there, taking it, soaking wet, eyes shut, bits of green slime all over him, until finally I dropped it and sank down into a chair. Johnny crouched, took me in his arms and held me as I sobbed. You see, this was nothing new. Our days were full of interesting little episodes like this. He never argued his corner – well, let’s face it, he didn’t exactly have one – just let me get it all out of my system, and then when it was over, went slowly back to his deck chair, his garage, his toolshed, or whatever it was he’d been doing before. Occasionally, though, after one of these outbursts, I’d catch him later in an unguarded moment, and see his eyes, full of sorrow and regret, so profound it shocked me. I hoped it was for me, for what he’d done to me, for the time we’d lost together, but I couldn’t be sure. And, feeling my eyes on him, he’d quickly respond with a bright smile and then we’d be back on track again, but often, they were tracks I didn’t recognise – polite, dissembling tracks. Where the hell were they going?

  And so, as I said, Sebastian had to be dealt with. Had to be visited. Well yes, of course he did, didn’t he? I mean, we’d never been lovers, but I was pretty sure we’d been more than friends, and I couldn’t exactly have him popping round wondering if I fancied dinner; couldn’t just leave it hanging in the air like that, could I? And so I went one afternoon without warning, simply because I saw his car outside and I knew he’d be in. Maureen opened the door.

  “He’s in the study,” she said with a brisk jerk of her head upstairs. “Will I tell him you’re here?”

  “Could I just go up?” I asked tentatively. “I’ll knock, I won’t just barge in.”

  She gave a hint of a smile. “Since it’s you.”

  And so I crept up the millions of stone stairs, knocked gently on the study door, and on hearing a curt “Come!”, entered.

  Sebastian was standing at the tall, floor-to-ceiling Georgian window, facing the street, fingertips pressed to temples, eyes shut.

  “You old poser,” I muttered brightly as I went in. He opened his eyes and swung round, and for a moment, my heart stopped. I instantly wished I hadn’t said it. His eyes were distant and preoccupied, about to be annoyed, but then remarkably, his face cleared, in the way I remembered, but had recently forgotten.

  “Olivia!” He was across the room in seconds. “How extraordinary, sixteen more bars of this wretched piece and I was coming over to see you! Did you get my postcard?”

  I nodded and sat down quickly on a button-backed chair, eschewing the sofa on the grounds that I didn’t want him too close. “From Paris, I did. How did it go?”

  “Marvellous,” he beamed, dragging up a chair, eyes shining. “To my utter relief they absolutely loved it, thank goodness, and let me tell you those Parisians are harsh taskmasters. Not so much the audience, who adore anything so long as it lets them get dressed up in their Chanel and pearls and go swanking about town, but the music critics. God, they’re sharks. And there they all were, in the front row – where stupidly I’d parked myself too – and I kept glancing along the row, watching their impassive poker faces. My heart was sinking fast, I can tell you, and then at the end there was this horrible hush, and then – thunderous applause! They even got to their feet, for God’s sake, and old Claude Pastiche from the Figaro doesn’t stand up for his grandmother!”

  I laughed. “Oh, Sebastian, I’m so pleased. You were so nervous about Paris. And Hugo conducted?”

  “Quite magnificently. Best yet, actually.”

  I smiled. “Missing Imo, no doubt. Her memory must have stirred him to passion.”

  “Oh no, not the memory, no, no, she came out.”

  “To Paris? Did she!”

  “Oh yes, for four or five days. God, we had some fun, though, the three of us – lots of laughs, lots of gastronomic delights and a huge amount of drinking – too much, actually, bearing in mind that at least two of us were supposed to be working.” He glanced down. “Oh Christ, Olivia, excuse my clothes. I’m in the old working pyjamas again, my nutter outfit.”

  “But how odd,” I mused, gazing past him, ignoring this. “I mean – I saw Imogen the other day, and she never said. Never even mentioned it.” I glanced back and felt his dark eyes upon me. Abruptly I remembered why I was here. I took a deep breath. “Look, Sebastian, the reason I’ve come – ”

  “If it’s about the other night,” he interrupted anxiously, “after Molly and Hugh’s, maybe I should explain – ”

  “No, no,” I stopped him hurriedly. “No, it’s not about the other night. No, what I came to tell you was – ” I went on in a rush – “well, Johnny’s home.”

  “Johnny?” He frowned.

  “My husband.”

  “Oh – oh yes, of course.” There was just a flicker of surprise, as if he’d momentarily forgotten who Johnny was, then his eyes widened in recognition. Slowly, a lovely, warm smile spread across his face.

  “But this is wonderful news, Olivia, and just exactly what you’d been hoping for, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, yes it is.”

  “How amazing! And a complete surprise? I mean, did he give you any warning or – ”

  “Complete,” I breathed, relieved he was taking it like this. “So unexpected, Sebastian, totally out of the blue. And you know, if I’d known he was coming back, well, I would never have – well, you know, in the car the other night. I hope you don’t think…” I panicked. What? What was I trying to say? I hope you don’t think I was stringing you along? But no, I hadn’t been stringing him along. I’d liked him, and, anyway, why was I sitting here explaining myself? Surely he’d rejected me? God, he was probably genuinely delighted.

  “I’m delighted,” he beamed. “You’re back together again, a family, and it’s how it should be. Claudia must be thrilled!”

  “She…is,” I said, confused. Confused a
bout how I felt, as much as how he felt. I studied his face, lean and elegant with those high cheekbones and dark brown eyes, which gave no clues, but which regarded me kindly now, rather as one would a small child.

  “D’you know,” he said thoughtfully. “I thought I saw her cavorting rather skittishly yesterday.”

  “Who?” I said, muddled.

  “Claudia. She pogo-sticked down practically the entire length of the road!”

  The phone rang and he got up and went to the piano to pick it up. His back was to me. I gazed. I’d forgotten how tall he was. How dark his hair was. He half turned and his face clouded as he listened.

  “Yes, yes, I know,” he said, scratching his forehead, “but, God, Louis, their timing is absolutely lousy. I can’t just churn these things out at a drop of a hat. I know they think I can but…Yes, yes I know…Yes, I said I would so I will, of course I will, but…OK, OK, keep your hair on. Yes, they’ll get it. Relax…You too…Bye.”

  He replaced the received and grimaced. “My agent, Louis. Apparently some film director is screaming for this score I’m supposed to be writing, although why I ever agreed to do it in the first place I’ll never know.” He rubbed his forehead sheepishly. “Well, yes, I do know actually, money, together with the promise of popular recognition, but remind me, Olivia,” he wagged a finger, “never again. There’s a joke in the music world that goes – when someone asks you to write a film score you reply, “D’you want it good, or d’you want it on Thursday?” Couldn’t be more apposite in this case.”

  He glanced surreptitously at his watch and moved imperceptibly towards the door. Suddenly I realised the interview was over and I was being shown out. I got up hurriedly. God, perhaps I shouldn’t have come at all? Perhaps I was overstating my position here. Maybe we hadn’t even remotely been ‘an item’ as Claudes would put it, but surely…Oh well. I grabbed my bag and scuttled doorwards.

  “There’s still your London premiere, isn’t there?” I said nervously as he held it open for me.

  “At the Wigmore Hall, that’s right.”

  I wondered for a minute if he was going to offer me a ticket but he seemed miles away.

  “Well, good luck,” I faltered.

  He smiled. “Thanks, I’ll need it. I’ll be a nervous wreck that night. I could really do without this can of worms on my plate, too.” He scratched his cheek anxiously and glanced across to the piano. “I usually like to be completely free of any work at a premiere, so I can empty my mind.” He continued to gaze past me, then abruptly came to, shrugged. “Oh well, can’t be helped.”

  “I should just bung any old thing down and tell them it’s a masterpiece,” I joked, in an effort at levity.

  He laughed. “Nice idea, Liwy, but I’m afraid I’m far too analytical and self-obsessed to ‘bung’. No, I won’t be happy until these final closing bars lie down and behave.”

  “You’ll knock them into shape.”

  “Let’s hope so, otherwise the London music mafia will knock me into shape!”

  I went past him and out towards the stairs. “Oh, you don’t have to come down – ” I glanced back as he made to follow.

  “It’s OK,” he said easily, “I need another pot of coffee and I feel horribly guilty if Maureen has to puff all the way up here. By the time she arrives at the door she has steam coming out of practically every orifice, except the coffee pot, of course, which is stone cold.”

  I smiled, but couldn’t think of anything to say in reply. I was drained of all wit and words suddenly, and talking to him had always been so easy. Finally we were at the bottom.

  “Well, goodbye,” I turned.

  “Goodbye, Olivia.”

  He smiled, held the front door open for me, lightly touched my shoulder and kissed me warmly on both cheeks. Out I went.

  The red front door shut fast behind me, and the sultry, heavy, mid-afternoon air wrapped itself around me like an electric blanket, hot and oppressive. I walked down the steps and wiped my forehead. God, why the hell did it have to be so hot all the time? This was supposed to be England, for crying out loud, not Madagascar. And talking of crying, I realised with alarm, there seemed to be a bit of a lump in my throat. As I walked up the cobbled street, I appeared to be gulping down a fresh supply of tears. God Almighty, I dragged a hanky from my pocket and blew my nose loudly, where was all this water coming from? Was I compensating for the drought? Doing my bit for the national crisis? I was so flaming overemotional at the moment, so permanently on the point of bursting into floods or punching a wall, and – well, I was supposed to be the happiest girl alive! What the hell was the matter with me?

  23

  Various factors combined to convince me to pay Nina Harrison a visit. Outright curiosity, for a start, together with a desire to tie up all the loose ends and to see that all the stories did indeed tally, but I could have resisted both of these impulses, were it not for the fact that Johnny’s mood swings were beginning to rival mine. Now, I was allowed to be volatile – I was the wronged wife, for heaven’s sake – but over the last few days, Johnny, from a standing start, was whipping up a performance that was positively Wagnerian in style. It certainly knocked my lettuce slapping into a cocked hat. He’d suddenly taken to getting up at dawn, wandering around the garden smoking furiously, and then at about nine o’clock, coming inside to pace the house. From that moment on, the telephone was rarely out of his hand and he’d negotiate urgently all morning, before slamming the receiver back in its cradle, punching the air, and giving an elated cry of, “Yes!”

  “Yes what?”

  Yes, it transpired, we simply had to fly to Geneva to stay with some people we hardly knew but who he’d managed to track down, and if he got enough of a party together he’d even hire a private plane to get us there! I’d watch, sweaty-palmed and with a horrible sense of dejd vu and memories of Normandy ballooning trips, as more and more of these plans unfurled. I wondered in bewilderment where on earth the rocklike, calming influence of a few days ago had gone. The following morning I’d take him up a cup of tea in bed, only to find that Geneva was off and he didn’t even want to get up. At all. Later that morning, though, I’d glance out of the kitchen window to see him still in his pyjamas, but careering around the garden with a squealing Claudia on his shoulders, shrieking with glee and terror as he threatened to throw her in the river. An hour or so later would find us at lunch, Claudia beaming up at her jocular Daddy, who for no apparent reason, would suddenly turn on her, yelling at her with such ferocity about the atrocity of her table manners that the poor child was forced to shrink down in her chair and peer at him from under her fringe, so strong was the stream of his invective.

  At this yo-yoing continued I began to wish he’d go back to work, just to give myself time to think, to regroup, to consolidate, but as far as the office was concerned, he was still ostensibly in St-Jean-de-Luz and had time on his hands. Time to dig enthusiastically beside me in the flowerbeds, time to accompany me to Sainsbury’s and commandeer my trolley, questioning loudly my need for quilted loo paper and other luxuries, just when I wanted to cruise those aisles in peace and give myself time to think.

  But it was Mac and the boys who really took the full force of his boomerang style. Since Johnny had been back he’d been wont, at the end of a very warm day, to take a six-pack from the fridge and wander upstairs to the bathroom, where they’d all be sweltering away amongst the archaic plumbing. There he’d open a can or two with them, take a debrief on the day’s work, and perching on the side of the bath, recall his own days as a student, when he too had worked on a building site, joking laddishly with them the while. Now, suddenly, puce in the face with rage, he was telling them their work was shoddy, that they had to redo the entire bathroom, strip the plaster work off, repin the boards underneath and start again.

  “You can see great lumps and bumps in the wall, Liwy,” he stormed as he dragged me upstairs one evening to see. “Look, even you can see that’s hopeless, surely!”

  I ignored
the implicit insult. “But we’re going to tile it,” I soothed. “They’ll plaster it over and then the tiles will cover it. You won’t even see it.”

  “But I’ll know it’s there,” he hissed. “And I want it all off!”

  My builders were subdued. Johnny’s return had been greeted with polite congratulations and a searching look from Lance which I’d ignored, followed by studied concentration, heads down, and a deep desire to finish the job and get the hell out as soon as possible. Any hopes of finishing that imminently, though, were dispelled by Johnny, who made it quite clear – politely or forcibly, depending on which way the wind took him – that much of the work done in his absence had been second rate. Clearly, he seethed, they’d hoped to get away with it, but that now that he was back and was once more ‘the guv’nor’, they wouldn’t. Spiro whimpered and twisted his hat in his hands, Alf cowered, Lance looked angry and defiant and Mac was mutinous but tight-lipped, because he’d been a builder long enough to know that keeping shtumm was the only way to get paid.

  As Claudia and I sat in the kitchen at breakfast one morning, listening to him berating them upstairs, I felt sad. On the whole I believed their work to be good and professional, but aside from this, I’d been close to these people. They were my friends. They’d helped me when Johnny hadn’t been there and seen me through some very dark days. I clenched my hands under the table and felt a sense of betrayal as Johnny’s irate voice resounded through the rafters.

  “It’s just incompetent!” he was saying. “Just downright incompetent!”

  Claudia was wide-eyed over her Coco Pops. “Why is Daddy so cross?” she breathed.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. I pushed my chair back and got up. “But I intend to find out.”

  I may have sounded determined as I snatched my car keys from the dresser and grabbed my bag, but as I went into the sitting room to find the A to Z, it was with a thudding heart. I knew Nina Harrison’s address off by heart, but as I flipped through the pages to find the route, my hands were shaking. You see, for the first time since Johnny’s return, it occurred to me to wonder if the object of his affections had rejected him.