Olivia’s Luck (2000)

by Catherine Alliot

  “What?”

  “Well, I mean those clothes! Mutton dressed as lamb, or what? I hardly recognised her! I mean, turquoise trousers, for heaven’s sake, and beads, and her hair!”

  “I think she looks lovely!” blurted Claudia, her voice cracking, her pale face stained with tears. “And we like Howard too, don’t we, Mum?”

  I turned to her and took her shoulders. “Darling, go upstairs, wash your face and have a lie-down on your bed. I’ll be up in a minute.”

  “But – ”

  “Now, Claudia.” I gazed down at her and she caught my eye and the tone of my voice. With a last defiant glare at her father she brushed past us, marched in, and slammed the front door behind her.

  “You must admit, my love,” laughed Johnny, moving to put an arm round my shoulders, “they don’t exactly wear their new arrangement well, do they? I mean, with the best will in the world it’s hardly love’s young dream, is it? Christ, I found the whole thing positively embarrassing, and I wished to God you’d been here. When they were billing and cooing and holding hands at the kitchen table, I didn’t know where to look!” He chuckled and made to lead me back to the house. “Ah well, you know what they say, there’s no fool like an old fool, but I mean – what exactly is the setup there? I think we should know, shouldn’t we, if only for Claudia’s sake? Are they living together or something crass?”

  I shook his arm off and backed away.

  “Johnny, why didn’t you tell me you had a son?”

  He turned, stared at me. Then he took a step back. I watched him visibly pale. “You know.”

  “Yes, I went to see Nina. She told me.”

  His arms came up from his sides, then flopped down limply in a gesture of defeat. His knees apparently wouldn’t hold him any longer, because he slumped back on the bonnet of my car. He rubbed his eyes with a shaky hand.

  “Liwy, I’d have done anything to have spared you this.”

  “So it appears. Like lying through your teeth for years.” I knew I was trembling, but I felt a terrible clenched calmness too.

  “Look, it’s not that I was never going to tell you,” he said desperately. “I was, honestly I was, and I’ve been building up to it. I knew if I came back you had to know, and I was going to tell you – this week, in fact. That’s why I’ve been so upset these past few days. I keep trying to tell you, I’ve been on the point of it so many times, but it’s so hard – so hard!”

  “Not as hard as it is for me, though, surely, Johnny? Please don’t ask me to pity you too. As I told your girlfriend earlier, I’m afraid I’m claiming the monopoly in that department, because nobody, Johnny, not you, not your mistress, not anyone, has taken quite as much shit as I have.”

  “Except…perhaps my sick son.”

  “That’s out of my jurisdiction. And Godlike and all-controlling though you most surely think you are, for once, it’s out of yours too.”

  “Divine retribution,” he muttered, “for all my mistakes.”

  “I doubt it. I doubt if He’s that interested in you, particularly since you can’t even call them sins. No, Peter’s affliction was caused by casual, careless, unprotected sex, together with the law of averages governing the amount of oxygen reaching babies at birth. It was bad luck.”

  His face contorted with pain at this. He clenched his fists, rapped his knuckles on his forehead. “I’ve tried so hard to make it up to him, to do the honourable thing! I went back, and it was only for the child! I went back! I was prepared to sacrifice everything, I – ”

  “Oh, don’t give me all that honour-and-duty crap, Johnny,” I snapped furiously. “Was it honourable to poke the garage owner’s daughter in the first place? Was it honourable to get her up the duff when you had a wife and child of your own at home? Hmm?”

  He gazed at the gravel, couldn’t look at me. I stared at that troubled blond head that I’d loved so much, stroked so often, and my heart heaved. Finally he looked up piteously.

  “I’ll make it up to you, Liwy.”

  “Oh really? In what way?”

  “I’ll never see her again, never see either of them again.”

  “That seems a little harsh, particularly in Peter’s case. It’s all or nothing with you, isn’t it, Johnny?”

  His blue eyes widened, and the first truth for a long while fell from his lips.

  “I don’t know how else to be.”

  I nodded. “I know.” I regarded him silently. “Pack a bag, Johnny.”

  “What?” he said, startled.

  “You heard me. Pack a bag. I really don’t think I can live with you any more. I can’t live with your wholeheartedness, your honour, your sense of duty, nor your integrity. I just can’t do it.”

  With that I turned on my heel, and left him standing, staring after me as I walked into the house.

  I went on through the hall, up the stairs and across the landing to Claudia’s bedroom. I peeped around the door. She was lying on her side on her bed, fast asleep, as I knew she would be. Sleep had always been her defence mechanism for any sort of upset or trauma. I closed the door softly and went downstairs, turning smartly right at the bottom and going out of the back door so as not to encounter Johnny, then on down to the potting shed.

  As I let myself into the cool, dark space, shutting the door behind me, I leant back on it and let out a long shaky, breath. My God. What had I done? I blinked into the woody gloom. Well, I’d sent him packing, that’s what I’d done. I’d known instinctively, in those few moments as I stood there facing him, that I simply couldn’t take any more. Didn’t want to either. Didn’t want him in my life. My eyes widened in the darkness, boggling at this revelation. God, had I really admitted that? I was so startled my hand went to my mouth. Surely in the car just now, I’d been so convinced I could overcome it all, could overlook everything…I lowered my hand. But I couldn’t. I shook my head in bewilderment. Extraordinary. All this time, all that anguish and heartache and now, suddenly, right in the middle of swallowing the crap just as fast as he could shovel it in – I’d gagged.

  After a moment I sat down shakily at the potting bench. Peered into my seed trays. Yes, those antirrhinums were getting a bit leggy. Could do with pricking out. I noticed my hands were trembling as I went about my business, but I also knew that I was quite clear about what I’d done. That I felt lucid and calm. And it was comforting to know that I could quite easily spend the next couple of hours in here and not have to witness his departure.

  When I did emerge, a while later, he had indeed gone. To her, I wondered, as I crept around the house? Who cares? At that moment I really didn’t; I just wanted to be on my own. Alone with Claudia. As I went upstairs to find her, it occurred to me that I might sell this house. I paused for a moment on the stairs. Stroked the banister, but not regretfully. Oh, I’d loved it in the beginning, we’d both loved it, thought of it as a forever place, but he’d been living a lie in it even then. That soured everything, and I wasn’t sure I wanted it any more. On an emotional level too much had gone on under its roof, too many unhappy memories, but on a practical level too, it was too big for us. We’d need something smaller now, the two of us. A cottage maybe, near that school that I knew Claudia was really keen on, but hadn’t mentioned because she thought it was too far away. The one on the cliffs in Dorset, with the sea beating against the rocks below, and the ponies in the paddocks above. I’d found the prospectus hidden under her bed, well thumbed and with ‘Cool!’ scrawled all over it. She’d thrive there, of course, in a place like that, and I could be close by in – yes, I thought wildly – a little whitewashed cottage, with a fabulous cottage garden full of poppies and lupins that she and her friends could come back to at weekends. Oh really, said a wry little voice in my head, and what about you? Would you give up on your own life altogether? Make jam, pickles, grow your own turnips, grow your own underarm hair, become a hermit or something? I sighed and trudged on up the stairs. Maybe, maybe. Because frankly, after all I’d been through, jam, pickles and hair
y armpits sounded remarkably alluring.

  Claudia was still fast asleep, spreadeagled on her back now, her mouth wide open. I took off her shoes and brushed the hair back from her face. Her forehead was hot and damp and I moved to the window to open it, to let a breeze in. As I flung it open, I hung out for a moment, feeling the wind on my own face, marvelling at what I’d done, at the empty drive below where his car should be. Just to the left of the drive, a stunning white, Himalayan rambling rose was taking over a tiny apple tree, killing it probably. I must chop that out, I thought suddenly. Why hadn’t I done so before? Yes, a beautiful, charming killer that, up to now, I’d just watched, transfixed, in a powerless state of fascination. But not any more. Nothing, and no one, was going to get away with that sort of bullying behaviour any more. As I gazed into the hazy sunshine, marvelling at the turn my life was taking, I suddenly spotted Imogen’s car. It was coming round the corner. Yes, that was surely her distinctive red Mercedes, indicating right now, and cruising slowly down our road.

  I raised my hand in welcome and was about to call out, rush downstairs, throw open the door and drag her in for a much-needed gin and tonic on the lawn, when abruptly, she stopped short. Not outside my house, but Sebastian’s. Oh, of course, I realised, she was probably with Hugo. Sebastian’s concert was about to be premiered at the Wigmore Hall and he was no doubt having last-minute consultations with his conductor. I watched, disappointed, as she got out, looking stunning in a sleeveless cream dress, her blonde hair swinging and shining like a girl in a shampoo advert, and waited for Hugo to get out the other side. But Imogen was on her own. Oh, so Hugo was clearly inside already. Either that or he was coming along later, under his own steam. As I watched Maureen let her in, I thought what fun they must have all had in Paris. Imo and Hugo, happy and in love; Sebastian, carefree, delighted his piece had been such a hit, high on success. God, if only I’d played my cards right I might have been there with them – made up a jolly foursome, guzzled champagne into the night, trawled the bars and cafes with the best of them, instead of which I’d welcomed my errant husband back with open arms. Fool.

  As I crept out of Claudia’s room, though, I decided that foolish though I’d most surely been, I was now getting stronger by the minute, and surer than ever that I’d done the right thing. I knew what Claudia would ask in the morning: “For ever? Has he gone for ever, Mummy?” My insides twisted briefly. My gut feeling was yes, for ever, but I’d say I didn’t know. Let it sink in. Say, “Well, as Granny says, Claudes, never say never and you can’t say forever, but what I do know, darling, is that I’m in the driving seat. For the first time in a long while, your mother, Olivia McFarllen, is calling the shots.” She’d like that. She’d be sad too, of course, and yet…and yet…

  As I made my way slowly downstairs, biting my thumbnail and lost in thought, I suddenly spotted Spiro, hovering on the front step behind the glazed front door. He was twisting his hat in his hands and peering through the glass, clearly looking for me. I stopped, sighed. And so life goes on, I thought wryly. I might, just this minute, have discovered my husband’s love child lurking in a North London bedsit, I might, tomorrow morning, have to tell my sensitive ten-year-old that her family unit had once more collapsed, but no matter. Come what may, one still had to deal with the day-to-day. One still one had to deal with the builders.

  “Spiro, come in,” I said, throwing back the door. “Do just walk in and yell if you can’t find me. You don’t have to loiter outside. Good heavens, you look very smart. Where are you off to?”

  His normally unruly black curls were brushed neatly to one side and slicked down with water, his jeans were pressed, he had a clean white T-shirt on, and he was carrying his tea-cosy hat, rather than wearing it.

  “Out,” he said, puffing up his chest and beaming proudly. “But first, Mac, he say to me – can I please bring Meeses McFarllen the latest bill and ask her, very, very kindly, and thank you so much, for an advance on the readies?”

  “Oh, he did, did he?” I took the bill he proffered and looked at it. Looked again. Blinked. “Blimey, as much as that, Spiro? Bit steep, isn’t it? How many weeks in advance is this for?”

  “Only one, but he say we need so many building supplies, breeks, copper piping, cement and things, and so he order it, but he no pay for it yet. It all here, see?”

  He pointed to a shopping list of masonic items in Mac’s hand.

  I sighed and tucked it in my pocket. “Yes, I see. Well, I’ll go down and talk to him about it. I’ll certainly give him some of it, but I’m not sure I can ante up the whole lot right now.”

  Spiro looked anxious. “But he say to be sure to bring it back and – ”

  “Look, I’ll talk to him, Spiro, OK? Now don’t you worry, no one’s going to shoot the messenger,” I smiled. “So, where exactly are you off to in your Sunday best, then?”

  “Ah yes, well, that also why I want to speak to you.” He twisted his hat nervously. “You see, I got a leetle job, a very tiny one,” he held his forefinger and thumb apart a fraction, “and it only take a jiffy, but I don’t want to step on your feet, so first, I come here, to ask your permission and see if you don’t mind.”

  I folded my arms in mock horror. “Good heavens, another job? Don’t tell me one of my staff is moonlighting? Where exactly is it, Spiro?”

  “Ees only down the road, at number 42. You know, at your dear friend, Meesis Nanette’s.”

  I frowned. “Really? And what exactly are you doing for dear Meesis Nanette?”

  “Ah,” he rolled his eyes. “Poor lady. She have beeg, beeg problems with her bed.”

  “Her bed?”

  “Yes,” he sighed, “an antique bed, you see, so very beautiful, but very old, and some of the springs, they go flippy floppy on her. They shoot through,” he demonstrated with a sharp upward thrust of his fist, “and hurt her something chronic she say. She want me to come with my spanner, you see, adjust them, and she say, ‘Spiro, you wear clean clothes now, please, because I have a cream carpet, and also, I may need you to lie on my bed to test it’.”

  “Did she now?” I said grimly.

  “Yes, and you know what, she may have to lie on other side of bed because sometimes,” his eyes widened, “the springs, they go plippy-ploppy all over! So we do a practical demonstration.” He nodded sagely.

  “Ah. And I take it Roger isn’t around to help with this practical? He’s not hovering about helpfully with his spanner?”

  “No, no, so sad. You see Meesis Nanette, she say, ‘I’m Rogerless, Spiro! And he such a handy man, my Rog, but he not here to do the business!’”

  “Is he not. I see.” I nodded. Pursed my lips. “Spiro, have you ever heard of a nymphomaniac?”

  He frowned. “Nymph? Ah yes, ees Greek, you know, for youth, and beauty.”

  “Possibly, and in her dreams, but in England, together with the maniac bit, it means mad about sex.”

  He frowned. “Ti?”

  “Sex, Spiro – she loves it. Lots of it, and with dewy young men like yourself and Lance, see? Oh, there’s nothing too terrible about it. It’s a harmless enough hobby, a frivolous diversion from the ironing and the dusting, something to do between Neighbours and Countdown, and I dare say it’s a marvellous tonic too, but just so long as you know the score. Just so long as you know what you’re getting into here. Because tomorrow morning, I really don’t want to find you weeping in the back garden, sobbing into your hat about what you’ve done to your poor Atalanta, when I’d really rather you were rodding my drains.”

  “Sex!” he gasped. “No bad springs?”

  “Oh, I should think they’re fairly bad, pretty rotten and worn out by now, but I’m sure they’re up to just one more hammering.”

  “Never!” he spluttered, backing away in horror. “Never would I cheat on my Atalanta to hammer this woman!”

  I patted his outraged shoulder. “Attaboy, Spiro, that’s the spirit. Now you hold on tight to that righteous indignation and pop down the road and pu
t her straight. Tell her you won’t be making an appearance in her boudoir this afternoon. Oh, and while you’re there, you might tell her from that she’s a terrible old slapper and to keep her thieving hands off my workforce. Tell her that if she’s that desperate for company, she can come and have a gin and tonic on the lawn with me instead. I’ll be getting the ice out right now.”

  Opening and shutting his mouth he backed away. “Yes, I go, I go. And I tell her!” Suddenly he stopped, frowned. “Slapper?”

  I grinned. “That’s it.”

  He nodded. “OK.”

  He squared his shoulders, turned and marched out of the drive, for all the world like some proud Cretan soldier off to rout a young Turk. Head high and bristling with indignation, he swept the tea-cosy hat out of his pocket and plonked it firmly on his head again.

  I watched him go, smiling, imagining Nanette’s stunned face. I also felt sure she’d have the nous to see the funny side, though. I could see her, listening incredulously to his indignant, disjointed spiel, then as she shut the door, throwing back her head and roaring with laughter, before charging upstairs, ripping off her black camisole, throwing on her old sequinned jeans and coming over to have a drink with me. I’d tease her mercilessly, of course, and no doubt she’d stay a while, help me see the bottle off, and we’d roar drunkenly into the night. Yes, two single, frustrated women, knocking it back. “Ha!” I laughed out loud. Because for the first time for ages, that didn’t make me feel either sad or lonely. It simply amused me.

  I was still smiling as I went down to the cellar, en route to the safe to get some money out for Mac. As I crouched down and punched in the combination number, I looked at the scrappy piece of paper Spiro had given me. I’d give Mac half, I decided, slowly opening the safe door. Two thousand pounds really was too much all in one go. I counted out the cash, popped it in an envelope, put the rest away, and then shut the safe again. God, no wonder he’d sent Spiro, I thought wryly as I mounted the cellar steps. For a start I generally paid him on a Friday, so this was earlier than usual, and also, I wanted to ask him about all these so-called building supplies. I could have sworn I’d paid for a whole lorryload only last week.